


Annarr Kostr - Second Chance

by Haprilona



Category: Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Video Game)
Genre: Dillion resurrected, F/M, Historical References, Old Norse, Picts, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haprilona/pseuds/Haprilona
Summary: What if Hela, her journey to Helheim, her quest - all of it was real? Senua will find that getting back her lover isn't as easy as bargaining with her soul and resurrecting the dead.Will feature a lot of new characters, both Picts and Vikings, as well as my poor attempts at grammatically correct Old Norse when written from Senua's point of view.





	1. Prologue

"I'll give you my life. That's what you want, isn't it? My soul. Take it. I'll be your slave warrior. I'll fight with you at Ragnarök, if you release him…"

Hela's single black eye stared at her, unblinking. "In order to receive, one must sacrifice." Her hollow voice seemed to come from every direction and nowhere at once. It resonated within Senua's mind and awakened her subdued Furies. "Your sacrifice is not enough to save your lover's soul. _He_ was sacrificed to _me_. It takes more to bargain for his life."

A cold chill ran through Senua and her grip on Dillion's head tightened. "What more do you want?"

"You've proven yourself worthy of the gift of Odin. Not even immortals can deny their desire to lay their hands on Gramr." The hand on her rotten side caressed the shimmering blue blade. "An offering from both a mortal and the all-father himself. That is what I want."

Dillion had led her to the sword. She had gone through such pains to earn it and it had served her well on her quest to the deepest reaches of Hel. But even the strongest of weapons was mere dust at her feet when weighed against the value of Dillion's life and love.

Standing up to her full height, Senua offered Dillion's head and with the most commanding and self-confident tone she could muster, demanded: "Release him."

Suddenly a dozen undead Northmen materialised in front of her. Jumping back on instinct, Senua reached for the sword that was no longer in its sheath. But the slaves of the giantess did not move. Instead, they hung limply in the air like the many corpses that decorated Surt's throne room.

"You will need a vessel for his soul. These are men you've defeated during your short stay. Choose whichever pleases you the most."

Hesitant, Senua approached the corpses. She couldn't see any of their faces beneath the masks they wore. How was she to choose the most suitable body for Dillion? Pacing in front of the defiled men, her eye was caught by a corpse that seemed no different from the others at a glance. Taking a closer look, his mask reminded her of Valravn's bird skull-shaped face, and from the scarred skin of his shoulders and upper arms protruded feathers of a giant raven. Beneath the plumage Senua could make out a splatter of blue. But what had caught her eye was the long gash that extended from his right breast to the left side of his chin.

Senua had given the laceration when fighting him down in the Sea of Corpses. In the seemingly endless army of undead, this man had been the last one standing. At first he had appeared to be just another grunt with a longsword, but as the fight dragged on and on, he proved himself a cunning opponent. Had it not been for Gramr and its divine properties, she might've lost the battle.

"I choose him."

The skin on Hela's normally expressionless face cracked like dry clay as displeasure twisted her features. "You are certain?"

She must have chosen correctly if the giantess wasn't happy about it. Of course she would want Senua to choose the weakest, which was probably why none of the hulking keep guards or dual-wielding berserkers were among the row of corpses. "Yes."

Grudgingly, Hela took the offered head and called for Dillion's soul. The fine hair on Senua's arms stood erect as she listened to the haunting song. The air around them seemed to drop in temperature when dark mist, similar to the one Senua had witnessed on the bridge to Helheim, surrounded the giantess and swirled up towards Dillion. It evoked a sudden, raspy intake of breath from the head. Once the mist dispersed, Hela walked to the chosen vessel and as effortlessly as a potter, fused Dillion's head with that of the corpse. The Northman collapsed as if released from invisible strings. Senua rushed to catch him, but the body slipped through her fingers and faded like ash scattered into the winds.

Eyes bloodshed with grief, desperation and rage, Senua turned to the frustratingly calm giantess, ready to challenge her with nothing but bare fists. "You lied to me!"

The half-rotten goddess merely cast a bored look towards the seething Pict. "I have kept my word. He will resurrect where he first died; in the cold embrace of the North Sea. Within three months' time he will find his way to you. But be warned: the man won't recognise you or have any memories from his previous lives. However, his soul will yearn for yours and he cannot find rest or comfort in the arms of another."

Absently, Hela stroked the blade of Gramr with the tenderness of a lover before turning to point it at Senua. "Now, pledge yourself to me."

Senua felt her legs give out as if by an invisible force. The blue glow of Gramr filled her vision.

_If she wants to see Dillion, she has to pledge herself to Hela!_

_She can't die here, not now._

"I swear... I will become your slave warrior after I draw my last breath."

A devilish grin stretched the giantess' features. "Your oath shall not be forgotten, daughter of Zynbel and Galena. Now leave, return to the world of the living and await for your lover. None shall hinder you."

* * *

He woke up to the shrieking of seagulls ringing in his ears.

He had no concept of where he was or how he got there, but the sound of the seabirds comforted him. A vague, intangible memory told his hazy mind it meant a voyager had reached his destination.

Slowly his senses returned to him, similar to a bear waking from months of hibernating. Despite lacking the strength to move a single muscle, he could feel the wet sand move beneath his immobile fingers with each tide crashing against the shore. The midday sun was warm and pleasant against his soaked form. A light pressure on his shoulder announced the descent of a curious gull. It pecked at the mop of tangled locks, but flew off at the sound of a soft groan escaping his parted lips.

"Hey!" A gruff voice called, followed by sounds of heavy footsteps kicking sand. He felt something shake his shoulder roughly, but couldn't summon the willpower to react. The sand crunched next to him as the owner of the voice crouched and stuck two thick fingers against his pulse. A hot breath fanned his face.

"Still alive, at least."

Another firm shake was enough to force his eyes to crack open. Blearily he looked up at the blurry image of silver fur and cunning, golden eyes. Was it Geri or Freki, one of Odin's loyal wolf-servants, here to collect him to the halls of his master?

"Anybody home?" Fingers snapped in front of his vision to provoke a response. So not a wolf, then. A werewolf, perhaps?

His unintelligent grunt seemed to delight the creature immensely.

"That's it, lad. Here, let me help you."

The werewolf turned him on his side. Immediately his body reacted with a lurch, pouring out excess saltwater from his mouth with surprising force. He barely noticed his hair being pulled away from his face as he continued to empty his flooded lungs.

"That's it. Let it all out", the voice encouraged.

Once he had nothing left to heave, a heavy hand patted his back in approval before pulling him up on his feet. He staggered and leant against the werewolf's shaggy shoulder for support.

"Feeling better?"

Managing a weary nod, he squinted at the creature, but its features were shrouded as it stood back against the blinding sunlight.

"How about I take you home? You can stay there until you can stand on your own two feet."

"To Valhalla?" he mumbled in query.

"To Valhalla?" the werewolf repeated, confusion seeping into its tone before replaced by a deep, hearty laughter. "Afraid Odin doesn't have room for the living. No, son. Old Agmundr's house will have to do. It might not measure to the Great Halls, but there's a warm hearth and a bed covered with plenty of pelts."

As he was half-carried and half-dragged away from the shore and the glare of the sun, he saw the owner of the voice was a mere man. A wolfskin berserker. True to his kind, the man wore a wolf's head and a shaggy wolfskin. Strapped under his belt was a two-handed battle axe. A brooch embedded with precious stones with magical properties to increase strength and endurance hung low from his neck, gently swaying with each step.

"Just beyond that hill is our settlement. They'll welcome you as long as you're willing to lend your sword arm. You _can_ use a sword, can't you? You have the calluses and scars of a warrior."

He grunted a confirmation. Despite having little to no tangible memory of, well, _anything_ , the idea of a sword in his hand felt familiar. He wondered whether he had lost his weapon to the depths of the sea. Perhaps he could get a new one from the village. It was good to have a goal, something to drive him forward.

_One step at a time._

Following the pointing finger of the berserker, he peered towards the seemingly endless, lush green horizon where the man's home was supposed to be. The colours seemed almost too bright, as if he was used to a muted, greyscale world and eternal overcast. It was too beautiful to be real.

"Where is this place?"

"Buckquoy, West Hrossey. Welcome to the Orkney Islands, lad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hrossey = literally means 'Horse island'; what vikings called Orkney's mainland  
> Buckquoy = land east of Brough of Birsay


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senua runs into Northmen.

"Morning, Beathan."

"Senua, you're early! We weren't expecting you for another hour or so."

With a spring in her steps, Senua hopped over the stone fence, not bothering with the wicket. "I woke up early to go through all the necessary rites and offerings to the gods. I want to begin as soon as possible."

"You shouldn't rush these things, you know." Beathan, the smith's apprentice, frowned in worry and recited from memory: "'The gods don't look favourably on those who lack restraint and respect.' That's what dad told me."

A man dressed in protective leather emerged from the roundhouse and clapped Beathan's shoulder. "True, but sometimes you gotta strike while the iron's hot, boy. You needn't worry. Tharain must've made sure all was executed precisely as the gods have ordered." Veda, the village smith beckoned Senua to come inside to his workshop. "I've got your sword right here. Made it just like you asked: a longsword carved with symbols of goddess Andraste. Give it a try."

A barely suppressed, excited grin lit up her eyes as Senua took hold of the wooden handle. The sword was comfortably weighty, carefully forged to suit her balance and fighting style. Senua held the blade close and inspected the Pictish runes depicting a short prayer: ' _I beg you for victory and preservation of liberty.'_ Truly, Veda was a master of his trade.

"You've outdone yourself, my friend." She took a small pouch from her belt and paid the smith. "I feel much better knowing I have a reliable sword at hand."

"And I'll sleep better at night knowing we have warriors like you protecting this village."

Senua left the workshop and lightly jogged the path leading uphill to the druid and his family's residence, past the sturdy broch fortress, stone walls, crop fields and roundhouses. Some villagers waved to her as she passed before continuing with their daily routine.

After returning to Orkney from the land of mist and fog, Senua had travelled to the only village she knew to be safe from both the Northmen and her father's influence. Dillion had been the one to tell her about it, for Veda the smith was a cousin of his and the two had been great friends in youth. It had been Dillion's desire to pay a visit to the village with Senua before the plague. Thankfully the village druid, Tharain, had asked no questions of her troubled past, instead welcoming Senua with open arms after noticing the warrior pin on her fur collar. While the village had decent geographical as well as man-made defenses, there were never too many able warriors at hand.

During her two month stay Senua had befriended unusually many people despite her initial hesitancy and shyness. The villagers had been eager to make her feel welcomed – and perhaps for a good reason as someday their fate might rest in her hands. In a way, it felt as if Dillion had led her here and given her another opportunity to live as part of a community, away from the loneliness of the wilds with only her Furies for company.

She found Tharain and his wife, Delerei, waiting outside the large house. "Come, the final ritual remains to be done."

They left the village and entered the wood skirting the village wall. A spring by which stood a stone monument depicting the goddess Coventina was their destination. Tharain and Senua lowered themselves waist-deep into the cold water, while Delerei hummed a hymn and waved a charm made of branches and feathers. Tharain blessed the weapon by pouring water from his cupped hands over the iron blade.

"Hear me, Coventina, goddess of springs. Hear me Andraste, goddess of war. I name this blade Liathplathadh – blue flash. May it weigh lightly in Warrior Senua's hand and strike true and fast as lightning on those who dare cross her path and bring our people harm."

"The goddess Andraste shall reveal if she approves with what has been stated." Delerei's mellow voice announced as she released a hare from within the folds of her dress. It sprinted to the right and disappeared into the thicket. Tharain exclaimed in pleasure of the outcome, while Delerei raised her hands towards the heaven. "I thank you, Andraste!"

The final ritual was done. Sheathing her blessed weapon, Senua escorted the druid and his wife back to the village. As they approached the highest point of the hill fort, they saw a group of children playing a game of tag.

"I'm glad you have chosen the warrior's path, Senua", Delerei began. "But I must say I find your choice curious. You are of the age to marry and there are plenty of suitable men in the village for you to choose from. Why not settle down while you're still in the spring of youth? Don't you wish for children of your own?"

"I do", Senua admitted and absently fingered the warrior pin Dillion had given her. "But I've promised myself to someone else."

Delerei cast a curious glance towards her husband who seemed to be holding in a sigh. "And where is he now?"

"I don't know. Hela said he would come to me within three months' time. Next week it'll be three months since she made the promise."

As if no longer able to keep quiet, Tharain muttered with a huff. "That wandering gelt, Druth, has been filling her head with nonsense about Norse gods and resurrecting the dead." He pulled Senua by the arm to a halt. "Don't let the old fool dictate how to live your life, Senua. Remembering the past is valuable, but wallowing in it and being unable to move on will weaken even the sturdiest warrior's heart."

"Come now", Delerei intervened and gently removed her husband's grip from Senua. "You cannot deny how romantic her loyalty is. And you heard what she said; give it another week."

With a sigh, Tharain shook his head. "A fool's hope is still hope, I suppose. Just be prepared for disappointment." With these words the couple parted ways with Senua.

The warrior turned and headed back to the forest. She had proposed building a lookout hut up the highest pine tree at the far edge of the forest. Beathan, Veda and some other men had offered to help construct it once she found a suitable tree with sturdy enough branches. While she had given her reasoning as a way to warn and protect themselves and the village from the Northmen and other brigands, Senua hoped to use the vantage as a way to locate Dillion's vessel. If what Hela said was true, he would come find her, and because he was a Northman, there would be trouble once he came into contact with her people.

_Tharain is right. She shouldn't place trust in Hela's promise. That greedy giantess only wanted to trick the sword from her._

_What if all of it was in her head? What if Dillion's gone forever?_

_What if Dillion won't be himself? Hela said he'd have no memories…_

_What if she doesn't recognise him and kills him?_

So distracted by her own musings and the constant prattle of her Furies, Senua failed to hear the several warning cracks of crushed dry branches. It wasn't until she saw three figures clad in tunics of faded greens and greys emerging from behind the trees that she realised the danger she was in. While they appeared to be only lightly armed with a dagger and a one-handed axe hanging from each man's belt, Senua knew not to deem them a lesser threat. She had survived her quest to Helheim only by the skin of her teeth.

The men froze, clearly not expecting to find a lone, armed woman in these woods. Before they could even think about taking up arms, Senua had already drawn Liathplathadh and rushed in with a feral battlecry. The closest Northman never got the chance to defend himself and fell with a gurgle, holding onto his bleeding throat in vain with both hands. Immediately his two companions sprang into action.

Senua sidestepped a quick lunge from the dagger-wielding man and parried the incoming blow from the other's axe. The men were circling around her and trying to force her to fight on two fronts. She wouldn't be able to keep both of her flanks protected. Parrying another strike of an axe and sending the man off-balance with a riposte, Senua managed to turn just in time to miss the blade of a dagger as it sliced the air where her head had been.

The first man returned to the fray and swung his axe in a wild, powerful arch. Muscles trembled from strain as Senua caught the weapon in a block. Using the momentum, she delivered a swift kick to the man's ribs and was rewarded with a satisfying crack of bones as his back connected with a tree trunk. The Northman toppled over, the hold on his weapon slackening as he fought to recover from the impact.

The last man standing had taken the time to arm himself with both a dagger and an axe. Senua adjusted her grip on the handle of her sword, ignoring the beads of sweat that trailed down her face. With a roar the man lunged, swinging his axe and following it by a slash of the dagger. Senua managed to deflect the axe and barely had time to parry the incoming dagger. Using the strength of both arms to overpower the weaker grip on the dagger, Senua pushed the offending weapon out of her way and used the opening to land a quick slash on the Northman's exposed chest. It was enough to render him vulnerable. The incoming axe lost its momentum while the dagger was too slow to come to the man's defence. A thrust through the heart and he collapsed to stain the forest floor with fresh crimson.

Senua turned to the man with broken ribs. Despite his gasping and cloudy eyes filled with pain, his weak grip on the axe remained. Struggling back on his feet accompanied by a litany of raucous curses, the Northman lunged at her blindly with his weapon raised. Almost feeling pity for the man, Senua sidestepped easily and watched him stagger and stay upright by force of will alone. Before the man could try another wild jab, Senua's blade cleanly penetrated the man's spine. He crumpled like a puppet cut from its strings.

A startled gasp caught Senua's attention. Turning around, she saw a small boy dressed in a similar manner to the fallen Northmen hiding behind a tree. Straw-coloured hair fell over blue eyes as the boy cowered and tried to make himself invisible. His gaze was fixed on the sullied tip of her sword.

With slow, deliberate steps the Pict made way to one of the fallen Northmen and wiped the blood from Liathplathadh on his tunic before sheathing it, her eyes never leaving the frightened boy's. She was not a murderer. She would not harm an unarmed child.

Senua turned to backtrack to the village when the boy regained his wits and ran away, screaming loudly something unintelligible. A few moments later his shrieking was answered by gruff voices.

There were more of them. Many more. At least a dozen of masculine voices joined in.

Panic nearly took hold of her and the cries of her Furies overwhelmed the rest of her senses as they debated how to avoid another confrontation.

_This is all your fault! If you had just captured the boy and taken him with you, we wouldn't be in this mess!_

_She should run back to the village!_

_No, it would lead them there. Remember Dillion's village! Remember what they did to Dillion!_

As if Senua could ever forget.

_She can't stay here! There's too many of them!_

Her mind abuzz, she ran, not knowing or caring where, as long as it was away from the noise of the enclosing choir of vengeful invaders.

_She should hide!_

_But where? There's no place to hide!_

_In the undergrowth?_

_No, that's stupid!_

Senua gritted her teeth and forced herself to calm down and focus on her surroundings. Besides shrubs, mossy undergrowth and occasional boulders, there were only thickets of spruce and tall pine trees. The heathlands were ways away and even if she could make it, she would be fully exposed to her pursuers.

_Up! Up in the trees!_

_The treetops aren't dense enough to hide her!_

_But they'd never look for her up there._

A sudden, loud voice boomed from behind her. "Finn hana!"

They were onto her.

She sprinted to the closest pine tree and climbed. Her leather shoes threatened to slip on the sap-glossened bark, but her scraped hands held on long enough for her to find footing. By the time she reached a sturdy enough branch to rest her weight on, a burly, well-equipped Northman emerged from the thicket. He wore a woolen gambeson, a shield and an iron helmet. He shouted orders at the unseen men at the top of his lungs.

From her vantage point Senua could see moving figures scouring the thicket in the distance and hear an occasional faint reply to their leader. She wouldn't be safe in her hiding spot for long. It was only a matter of time before one of the Northmen spotted her. Her brown hair and tartan tunic offered a meager camouflage against the similarly coloured bark of the tree, but she felt more exposed than she had on the forest floor. There was nowhere to run. All it took was a single shot from an arrow and that'd be the end of it.

"Andskoti!" The sudden curse drew Senua's attention to the leader of the bandits who was hunched over by her tree and holding his foot. Taking a closer look, she could see bloodied toes poking through the weathered and torn tip of his leather shoe. He must've stubbed it on one of the sharp rocks poking through the blanket of moss.

She couldn't have asked for a more perfect opportunity for an ambush even if she had prayed for it.

_No, don't! Stay here, it's safe here!_

_She can't stay here forever. She has to get back to the village and warn the people! She can slip past the Northmen if she kills him._

Senua climbed down as quietly as humanly possible and dropped the rest of the way, the sound of her fall muted by the sponge-like moss. The man had set his mace and shield aside, attention solely on the bloody mess of his foot. His guard was down and his back was invitingly exposed for a quick and easy kill.

Perhaps Andraste watched over her after all.

Cold determination driving her forward, Senua drew Liathplathadh and struck.

The Northman hollered from pain and shock, but didn't go down. The sturdy gambeson had protected him from the brunt of her slash.

_What is this, witchcraft?_

_Is he protected by a spell?_

_How is that possible? It's just cloth!_

Senua ignored the Furies and made to strike again, but the man rolled out of the blade's path, picked up the discarded weaponry and hid behind the safety of his shield.

"Pettr bikkja!" Red foam dribbled from his mouth as he spat out the words like venom, eyes ablaze with rage.

With a cry Senua leapt, but each strike was followed by the low thud of iron against wood. His defense was impenetrable.

"Hon eru hér!" The man bellowed for his men even as Senua continued to harass him with heavy strikes in an attempt to tire his shield-arm.

She was at an disadvantage and running out of time. The Northman had to barely move to keep himself protected. All he needed was to wait for his men to arrive. But he did have one weak spot.

Deciding to change tactics, Senua rushed him, slamming against his shield with all of her body weight and momentarily knocking him off-balance. The split-second was long enough for Senua to slash at his defenseless legs.

Instead of succumbing to the pain and opening himself for further assaults, the man seemed to become fueled by it. He roughly shoved Senua with his shield before lunging with a feint attack towards her head. Leaning backwards to avoid the brute swing, she failed to see the incoming mace hidden behind the shield until it was too late.

The weapon ripped through cloth and skin, grazing her knee and tossing her like a ragdoll into the thicket. Stars exploded behind her eyes as a wave of agony washed over her.

_She's injured!_

_She won't be able to make it!_

_Don't just sit there! Get! Up!_

A sharp rock stuck out of the moss and scraped against her palm. Gritting her teeth, Senua picked it up and hid it behind her back as she staggered back on her feet.

They panted and stood unsurely on their injured legs, sizing each other up for an opening or a weak spot. The Northman limped towards her, shield steadily held in front of him and the bloodied mace at the ready.

Senua hurled the rock at the man's face. On instinct, he raised his shield to protect his eyes. Using the distraction, she charged and leapt, using her healthy knee to smack the edge of the shield against the Northman's unprotected mouth. Reeling from the unexpected attack, he blindly raised his mace to retaliate, but Senua was ahead of him and rolled to safety from between his widely spread legs.

Recovering, the Northman turned to defend his vulnerable back only to feel the cold bite of Liathplathadh against his unprotected neck. With a bloodcurdling scream, Senua slit the man's throat and watched as he attempted a final, deadly swing at her before sagging against the trunk of a tree.

Relief flooded her whole body, but with it she felt her strength ebb away. Her injured knee was bleeding heavily. She hadn't even noticed how bad it was during the fight. She dimly recalled Dillion remarking something about warriors and how they often died from wounds only after their battle frenzy had been spent.

Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she attempted to limp away into the safety of the thicket, but her legs gave out and she fell heavily to the moss mattress.

_Come on, Senua!_

_Quickly, get up! They're coming!_

_You have to get back to the village!_

_They'll kill you if they catch you!_

The village. Tharain. Delerei. Veda. Young Beathan. She couldn't have a repeat of Dillion's village.

Supporting herself with Liathplathadh, Senua forced herself back on her feet and used the sword as a crutch. She wouldn't be able to do much fighting like this.

"Þú! Pettr mær! Stǫðva!"

It was as if the gods had heard her and decided to stack all the odds against her for their own amusement.

Glancing over her shoulder, Senua saw a lone Northman kneeling next to the slain leader. He was armed with a longsword similar to hers, but unlike her, the man was uninjured—and fast!

He charged at her and Senua had no choice but to raise Liathplathadh in her defense. She managed to parry the attack, but staggered back from the force of the blow and lack of crutch to support her. Swords still crossed, Senua leant forward to rebalance herself. Through the holes of his animal skull mask she saw him glance down at her bleeding knee. Before Senua could try and shield her obvious weakness, the man pulled back and smacked the injured body part with the blunt side of the blade. She fell with a muffled moan, but kept her sword raised as a last line of defense. Another quick and powerful swipe and the man sent Senua's weapon flying from her weakened grasp.

_He's going to kill her!_

_He's stronger than her!_

She was left with few options.

Painstakingly she rolled back on her feet, every muscle in her injured leg flaring in protest against the abuse. From the corner of her eye she could see the Northman raise his longsword, ready to execute her mercilessly while she was beaten and helpless.

Hunched, Senua rushed at him, grabbed him by the calves and pulled with all the strength she could muster and managed to trip him over. He fell heavily on the forest floor, the back of his head connecting with something harder than moss. Senua made to grab his sword, but even through his daze the man's hold on it remained firm. Deeming it best to even the odds, she settled for kicking the weapon out of his grasp instead.

A swift kick to her trembling calf was enough to force her to join him on the forest floor. His strong arms wrapped around her neck from behind, cutting off her air. Senua thrashed against his hold—flailing, kicking, clawing, biting. The Furies were an incoherent chorus of desperation as they tried to offer useless advice or wailed at her inevitable demise. Just as she began to feel lightheaded, her elbow connected hard against the man's chin. He grunted and eased his chokehold enough for Senua to pull away. With a greedy gasp she sucked in air and rolled off the man.

But the fight was not over.

Having recovered, the Northman pulled her back by the foot and punched her hard enough to see stars. She fell limply on her back and felt the man climb on top of her, his heavy weight crushing her injured leg. Senua screamed. Her whole body felt like it was pulsing with white-hot agony. Again the man's fingers wound up around her throat.

_She can't breathe! She can't breathe-_

_Don't give up! Hit him!_

_Kill him!_

Senua clawed at his hands, but his hold was like an iron collar. In an attempt to reach his vulnerable eyes, she smacked his mask off. Her eyes widened in recognition.

A familiar scar extending from breast to chin. Her chosen vessel. Hela's promise.

"Dillion!" Senua somehow managed to croak out under his vice-like grip.

The man froze and let go of her neck as if he'd been burnt. Immediately Senua began to cough and wheeze. So engrossed in filling her lungs with precious air, she failed to notice the pressure on her leg ease as the man climbed off her.

The ambience of distant shouts died down when the Northmen found their way into the opening from the thicket. Dillion stood calmly by her with his sword almost lazily pointed in her direction, his focus elsewhere. The men gathered around the body of their leader, those with helmets or hats removing them in reverence. They muttered quietly amongst themselves. After a while few of the men began to build a makeshift stretcher from their clothes and spears to carry the fallen warrior back home. Senua noticed the three men she had killed earlier were also carried in similar mobile beds with their weapons respectfully placed beside the bodies.

One of the Northmen—a barefooted man dressed in nothing but a wolfskin pelt—turned to Senua. His deep, almost throaty voice was loud and clear. He appeared to be a man used to capturing the attention of those around him. "Hvat ger vér með hana?"

Soon all of the men's eyes were on her, determining what her fate should be. Would they kill her or take her as a slave like Druth? Something far worse? Senua trembled, but not from cold.

A gentle tenor beside her answered. "Hon kømr með oss."

Looking up, Senua saw Dillion eye her thoughtfully. Not knowing a word of the language, all she could do was wordlessly plead for his goodwill and hope he would somehow recognise her or at the very least take pity on her.

He did neither. Instead, he sheathed his weapon and grabbed her by the arm. Her groans of protest were ignored and she was roughly forced on her feet. Dillion and another man restrained her by the arms while a third Northman placed an iron collar around her bruised neck. With the last ounce of her strength drained, Senua slumped beneath the weight of the collar and was kept upright only by the steady grips of Dillion and his companion. Once the body of their fallen leader was secured on a stretcher, the Northmen set off.

Senua hung limply from their arms and listened to the quiet chatter of the Northmen, the playful clatter of spears against tree trunks, the shuffling sound of her deadweight limbs scraping against the forest floor and the worried whispers of her Furies. Her vision was dim and she felt lightheaded.

"Bíð. Hon blœðr."

The men dragging her came to a stop and lowered her back on the ground. Without comprehending, she watched Dillion press a warm palm against her knee and sucked her teeth sharply in response. Her knee throbbed painfully to the slow tempo of her heartbeat. Frowning, Dillion removed his hand to rip strips of cloth from his tunic and wrapped them around the wound to stop the bleeding.

"Rassragr." The man who had helped carry her snorted. The other Northmen chuckled as if something amusing had just happened. Dillion rolled his eyes and gave her uninjured leg a pat before nodding to his companion. Together they hauled Senua up and continued to carry her further away from the protective shade of trees.

She was only dimly aware of the sounds of sloshing water as they crossed a narrow strip of land separating two lakes from each other. The little boy from before ran excitedly knee-deep into the shallows and kicked, sending sprays of droplets on the backs of the adults. One of the men turned, growled playfully and chased after him, filling his helmet with lakewater before emptying its contents on the escaping child's head. Shrieks of laughter filled the air.

A sequence of long shadows shielded Senua's unseeing eyes from the blinding evening sun. Had the Northmen taken her to the one of the sacred stone rings? Just a month ago she had watched Tharain communicate with the gods in the middle of the ring of Brodgar, praying for protection and guidance against the invading Northmen. Perhaps she should've done the same that day. Without the blessed Liathplathadh, Senua could only rely on herself to survive what was to come. It was nigh ironic that Dillion had been the one to disarm her. For him she had given up Gramr – and in a twist of fate Liathplathadh.

After what seemed like days to her disoriented mind, the sounds of lapping waves faded away, replaced by the gentle swish of endless grassy plains. A cool breeze dried the sweat on her skin and brought smells from far-off plains. One particular smell was strong enough to pull her back to full awareness. Heart leaping to her throat, Senua fought to lift her heavy head and saw wisps of grey rising in the distance. Smoke.

Had the Northmen already found Tharain's village? Tears blurred her sight, obscuring the fate of her people from Senua.

Sounds of grazing cattle and sheep reached her ears despite the wailing of her Furies and the loud pounding of her heartbeat. The thought of the Northmen sparing the village-livestock was a hollow comfort. Meanwhile the men seemed to cheer up the closer they came to their destination, their steps becoming lighter and more jubilant. Somebody even began to sing, and soon the rest of them joined. Senua could not fathom how the tragedy of her people could be taken so lightly even by the very people who caused so much suffering.

But upon seeing wooden longhouses and smoke rising from smoke-holes rather than burning roundhouses, Senua felt like she could've burst into song as well. Her people were safe. The Northmen had not found the Pict village.

Suddenly her fate seemed clear. The Norse settlement, the iron collar on her neck—she was to be their slave, perhaps even to be sold off to far-off lands.

She felt a pair of eyes on her and turned her head to see a Northman in his mid twenties leering at her. His long, sand-coloured hair was pulled back from his face by several beaded braids while the rest of it hung freely against his back. He sauntered leisurely next to her, both hands holding a spear resting against the back of his neck without any regard to the men walking beside him. Senua caught his hazel eyes. Rather than being dissuaded, the man appeared encouraged by her attention and made his intentions known by allowing his gaze roam over her abused body, meaningfully pausing at the curve of her cleavage. A lecherous smirk curved his full lips.

With a shudder she turned away and sought solace in Dillion's unfamiliar face. He had barely anything in common with her dead lover – instead of short and matted brown hair, his was the colour of straws and long enough to be braided all the way down to his back. Both had blue eyes, but this man's were the colour of stormy seas rather than the gentle summer skies. His rugged features were covered in scars and flaxen facial hair. From the corners of his eyes down to his high cheekbones trailed streaks of woad blue.

His grim eyes found hers, startling Senua with their intensity.

* * *

He was bothered by the way the Pict girl kept staring at him, similar to a small child searching for answers from their parent's face. She seemed so lost, so vulnerable. He should've been disgusted by such an open display of weakness. Instead, he felt pity.

Adjusting his grip on the girl's arm, he noticed Yngvarr eyeing the Pict like a wolf would a slab of meat. The man had been complaining about the lack of women for weeks. They had sold the last patch of thralls a month back and made a pretty penny out of it. Only the leftovers—the injured and the elderly—of Túatha occupied the slave pens, and Yngvarr was a finicky man.

The girl glanced at Yngvarr who seemed to take the gesture as an invitation to strut like a rooster with his chest buffed out. Quickly she turned away and sought his gaze, pale blue eyes pleading for help.

What was it about this girl that made him want to protect her? She was just another primitive local to be sold in the great thrall market of Hedeby, just another means for them to fill their coffers and live the life they'd always wanted, away from the pompous rules and customs of their homeland.

The Northman's thoughts went back to the moment he had been about to squeeze the life out of the girl and how a rasped, incoherent word had stopped him in his tracks. He had been assaulted by sudden flood of fragmented memories; vague sounds and sights that lasted little more than a blink of an eye. He couldn't make any sense of them, yet he clung to them like a drowning man.

The sun was setting by the time they reached the town. They were welcomed by a small number of young and elderly the Northmen had brought with them over the North sea, as well as wives of foreign origin a handful of the luckier men had managed to secure for themselves. Most of the villagers had yet to return home from their work at the farmland.

"Take Skorri, Æisir, Tafi and Þiǫkkr to the shaman. Help her prepare them for their journey to afterlife", Agmundr told the men carrying their chief and the three scouts. Despite the wolfskin berserker having an aura of authority and the age of an accomplished warrior, he had never been one to bark orders outside battle, preferring to let others lead. With Skorri dead, a new chief would have to be appointed from the remaining twenty-three warrior men.

He wasn't looking forward to it and the scuffle it would entail.

They dragged the Pict girl where the thralls were kept. After tossing her inside an unoccupied pen, Ráðugr bound her hands and halfheartedly kicked her as a repayment for having to drag her. Locking the cage behind him, Ráðugr left the two alone without a word and a merry tune on his lips.

The Pict girl curled into a pitiful ball, but stayed alert and followed the remaining Northman's every move. Upon noticing the tears in her eyes, he felt a strange urge to reach through the wooden bars and dry them. He crept closer, gaze never wandering from the girl's. She made no attempt to put distance between them and merely waited to see what he would do.

He couldn't deny he was fascinated by her; she was obviously scared due to her unfortunate circumstance and showed unease towards the men with less than pure intentions, but towards him—the man who nearly killed her—she acted like a tamed canine.

Deciding to test the waters, he sat down next to her. Was he imagining it or did she seem to press against the bars in a futile attempt to get closer to him? With faked air of nonchalance, he allowed his hand to pass through the barrier and rest next to her thigh. He didn't have to wait for long to feel the tentative brush of her scarred fingertips against the back of his hand.

He kept his head faced towards the activities of the villagers even as he studied her from the corner of his eye. Her chapped lips quivered and her wide, blue eyes blinked uselessly against the blur from teardrops. She seemed to be struggling to keep a lid over her emotions. What was it that she saw and he didn't?

Unexpectedly her fingers clasped his and held tightly like one would a lifeline. Not fully understanding her distress yet unwilling to cause her more anguish, he allowed her to cling to his hand. If he could offer some meager comfort through such a small gesture, he'd gladly permit it. Her other hand lifted to cradle his between both of hers and she wept silently, the leather of her headpiece resting against the cocoon of flesh.

Moments later exhaustion caught up with her and she fell asleep against the bars. Sighing, he pulled back from her touch and dismissed the sudden feeling of loss. Casting a last glance in the defeated Pict's direction, he left the pens behind.

He found Agmundr among a large gathering of men watching a game of Mia.

"Ah, you're late for the game." The wolfskin berserker greeted him. "They're competing who first gets to invite the Pict in bed. Final round."

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't ignore the tight knot forming in the pit of his stomach. The mere thought of the poor girl having to endure more at the hands of his kinsmen made his skin crawl. He pushed the irrational feelings aside and feigned indifference. "Who's winning?"

"Yngvarr", Ráðugr snarled. "He's cheating. No man can be that lucky. He's been drawing sixes every round. He must've paid the shaman to enchant the dice!"

The sand-haired poet scoffed and retorted. "You're just sour you haven't been blessed by the Hamingja. I, for one, have given offerings on a weekly basis. My luck is divine." Yngvarr gathered the dice and made a point to shake them with more dramatics than required.

The audience made noises of disbelief, approval and delight as Yngvarr rolled sixes yet again. But not even his theatrics could fool Angmundr's keen eyes. The older man elbowed his observing companion in the ribs and made a nod towards Yngvarr's sleeves. Squinting his eyes, he could see something move within the cloth. Perhaps Ráðugr wasn't too far off in his accusation. Having witnessed the poet's enthusiasm towards the Pict earlier certainly supported the theory.

"Seems like I'll be enjoying me some barbarian pussy tonight, lads", Yngvarr cheered. The contenders of the final round grumbled and cursed, but grudgingly allowed the poet his victory once free tankards of ale were placed in front of them. "Victor's generosity."

Yngvarr left with a spring in his steps, twirling the key to the Pict's pen.

* * *

Senua was startled awake by the sound of clinking keys and cheerful humming. The Northman who had eyed her with interest earlier was there to collect her. Without any regard to her injuries, he pulled Senua up by the iron collar and dragged her heavy-handedly to a house she presumed as his home. The man shoved her inside and closed the door behind him. Senua scrambled on her knees to get distance and a clear visual on her surroundings.

The Northman chuckled and tossed several logs into the dying flames of the hearth before turning his lustful eyes on her form.

"Kom hér, min meyla", he crooned. Senua retreated until her back connected with the wooden wall. The Northman took slow, deliberate steps towards her, his delighted grin reminding her of a ravenous wolf closing in on its prey.

_Find something to fight with!_

_She needs to get rid of the binds!_

_The collar is so heavy…_

If she could only get around the man and grab one of those logs…

He was upon her faster than she could stand up. Senua's poor attempt to punch the Northman with bound fists was rewarded with a mischievous squeeze on the injured knee. With a soft cry Senua crumbled on the floor and pulled her legs up to shield her body. Lean, sinewy arms lifted her from the crouched position and trapped her against the wall while his knee pushed between her thighs. His mouth descended on the bare skin of her neck and chest, licking, sucking and biting. Shuddering from revulsion, Senua closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath. When the man lowered his head and moved to pull her fur-trimmed collar down for easier access, she heatbutted him hard.

Blood trickled from the man's nose and he cursed in earnest before violently shoving Senua on the bed. The back of her head connected with the headboard, dazing her long enough for the man secure her bound hands to it.

His playfulness spent, the man kicked off his shoes and stripped before forcing himself on top of her. All she could do was fight off the man's advances with one leg, but even that was rendered useless once he straddled her. He pulled her collar down roughly, ripping the tartan in the process and exposing her breasts to the cool air. Cold hands molested the supple skin, pinching and squeezing and leaving bruises behind. Senua felt a hardness grow and press against her trousers. In a final attempt to push him off her, she thrusted her hips upwards, but the man kept his balance and began to grind his loins against hers in a show of dominance. His hot breath fanned against her face as he panted. Whimpering, she squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could block out everything and recede into the safety of her mind.

_She needs to escape!_

_She can't let him take what isn't his!_

_You have to fight him!_

His thrusts came to a halt and he moved to take off her trousers. Senua saw her chance when in his distraction the hand that had been cupping her breast slipped up to her collarbone. Pushing against her restraints, Senua leant forward and sunk her teeth on his finger. She bit as hard as she could and tasted the coppery tang of blood. The Northman howled from pain and tried to pull away, but Senua's hold was like iron and his weak attempts to choke her only encouraged Senua to bite harder. The muscle continued to rip the more he thrashed. Surrendering herself to gravity, Senua pulled the trapped finger further back with her until the satisfying, wet snap and lack of resistance announced her victory.

Senua spat out the finger in defiance and watched the man shriek and hold the bleeding stump. Soon his pitiful wailing was replaced by rage and litany of curses. He retrieved a dagger from his discarded belt and placed its blade inside Senua's mouth. She lay motionless, eyes wide with fear.

* * *

"Not so tough now, are you, little Pict bitch?" He heard Yngvarr taunt the girl. He wasn't certain what he had expected to find behind the closed door, but it wasn't an amputated finger on bloodstained floorboards.

Yngvarr—naked as the day he was born—hovered over the bound girl and held a dagger to the corner of her mouth. She must've put quite the fight to get the poet worked up in such a frenzy.

"Yngvarr, put the dagger away", he ordered calmly.

"Stay out of this! She fucking bit my finger off! She deserves a slicing."

"I insist." The sound of a sword being drawn was almost painfully loud within the confined space. "You forget I own her. _I_ captured her which means she belongs to _me_. And I don't like it when hotheads like you ruin my merchandise." By law he had every right to challenge the poet, and Yngvarr knew he was outmatched.

Seconds seemed to drag into hours as he waited with bated breath. Both Yngvarr and the Pict were still as statues. Finally with a frustrated snarl Yngvarr removed the dagger and slammed it on the table, leaving it erect.

Eyes blazing with rancor, the poet stabbed a finger in the intruding Northman's face. "She might be your property, but that only means you're responsible for her behaviour. You should be whipped for her insolence."

He sheathed his sword to show he wasn't bothered by the younger man's threats in the slightest. "Go get that hand checked. The healer might be able to salvage your talharpa-playing career yet. And put some trousers on." He tossed the discarded clothes to the sand-haired poet who sneered in response.

"Barbarian loving asshole." Yngvarr spat at the other man's feet before stomping outside.

Once the sound of Yngvarr's footsteps faded, he turned his attention to the Pict. She had additional bruises, cuts and bitemarks from when he last saw her. Tears trailed freely down her cheeks. Her lips and chin were stained with gore and her injured knee had began to bleed once more through the dressing.

"It's alright. He's gone now." He soothed the girl and slowly approached the bed. Her eyes remained vacant even as he cut the binds and her battered body collapsed against the headboard.

"I'm taking you home. I need to take a look at that knee of yours. For a self-proclaimed ladies' man Yngvarr certainly doesn't know how to treat one." His meaningless conversing appeared to have a positive effect on the Pict as the clouds lifted from her gaze and she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Shyly, she pulled the tattered remains of her tartan to cover her exposed chest.

"We'll have to fix that, too", he agreed. Gathering her in his arms, he carried her outside. Without needing to prompt the girl, her arms wound up around his neck for support. As they passed the curious stares of villagers, she buried her face in the crook of his neck in an attempt to shut out the world around her. He felt his heart throb with pity.

Once safely within the privacy of his home, he set the girl down in his bed and removed the iron collar from her neck. It fell with a heavy thud on the wooden floorboards. Reaching for a small bowl filled with a herbal remedy from the healer, he set to treat her injuries.

* * *

It should've been unnerving to hear Dillion's mellow voice coming from a stranger's lips, but Senua was oddly soothed by its familiar lilt. Even her Furies were uncharastically calm, only hesitantly whispering in the back of her mind as if afraid of drawing the man's attention to their presence. Eventually a nagging voice—which Senua had come to know as the loudest to announce her self-doubts—dared to break the serenity and say what the Pict lacked the courage to utter even in the seclusion of her own mind: what if the desire to reunite with her lover was warping reality into something it wasn't? What if she imagined the Northman's voice as Dillion's?

A brief, sharp pain on her knee was enough to pull Senua back from her bleak musings. The man muttered what could've been an apology and continued to remove the bloodsoaked dressing. He tossed it aside before reaching for a bowl of water and washing the wound. In one fluid motion the man pulled the tattered remains of his tunic off and ripped fresh strips to wrap her knee with. Senua's eyes wandered over his bare torso and followed the crisscross pattern of old wounds and self-inflicted scars in the shape of runes. Some she recognised as symbols for strength and protection. A vague shape of an eagle taking flight was smeared on his chest and shoulders in the same blue as the thin streaks trailing down from the corners of his eyes. Although the markings were all wrong, the woad on the man's skin reminded her of Dillion when he had gone through his warrior trials.

The Northman continued to speak in a hushed tone to fill the silence, his soft timbre almost melodic akin to a beginning of a song. Senua needed only to close her eyes to believe she was back in Dillion's village, listening to him hum stories passed down from father to son for generations.

The illusion was broken as soon as the rough, battle-hardened fingers finished tending her injuries, leaving only a pleasant tingle behind where skin had ghosted against skin. Instead of leaning back in his seat, the man continued to study Senua as if trying to solve a riddle written on her painted features. Senua returned his stare evenly and did not so much as blink when he lifted a hand to trace the curve of her cheekbones, jaw and neck. It had been so long since she had felt a touch that meant her no harm. She resisted a shudder even as her heart trembled with longing, but couldn't stop herself from leaning against the warmth of his palm.

"Hverr eru þú?" He whispered, dark eyes narrowing in confusion when her body responded to his attention without hesitation. "Ek kenni þik eigi, þó..."

Senua let out a mumbled protest when the man withdrew his hand, ending the caress prematurely. The hints of tenderness gone from his gaze, he gestured to himself.

"Leifr."

He pointed to her and waited expectantly.

 _Leifr._ She recalled hearing the word several times. _That's how the other Northmen addressed him._

Even though him having a name from his previous life made perfect sense, Senua couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. Like a part of Dillion that was dormant beneath the Northman's flesh was slipping away and she could do nothing about it.

"Ná?" He urged her to answer, but his relaxed posture exuded patience that seemed out of place in a brute like him.

"Senua." There was no recognition on his face, just as Hela had predicted. Senua's heart sunk as the last ray of hope was snuffed out mercilessly. He truly did not remember anything about his life as Dillion or as an undead slave warrior to the half-rotten goddess. He was blissfully unaware of the origin of the hideous scar stretching from his breast to chin.

"Senua", he repeated slowly, as if savouring each syllable and looking for something familiar to latch onto. Finding nothing, Leifr sighed and stood up.

"Don't leave me!" Her attempts to stop the Northman were rewarded with only a fistful of waistwrap. Casting a puzzled glance from his stretched cloth to Senua's pleading blue eyes, Leifr returned to her side and calmly pushed her back to lie down against the sheepskin covers.

"Ek læt eigi." He paused, eyes widening, and stared as if she had grown a second head. For a brief but anxious moment Senua wondered whether he had heard the chorus of protests echoing within her mind. Surely he couldn't hear her Furies…?

"Skil þú mik?" Leifr gestured frantically at himself and then to her which did little to help her understand what he wanted. Shaking her head in bewilderment, Senua watched helplessly as the Northman let his arms fall to his sides in defeat and turned to leave. Ignoring the sting of her injuries, Senua sat up with the intention to follow him, but Leifr merely raised a hand towards her and shook his head in disapproval.

"Bíð hér."

She understood the gesture. _Wait._

With the doubtful cries and panicked protests of her Furies ringing in her ears, Senua settled back in bed and reassured herself the enigmatic man would return to her.

* * *

Leifr needed fresh air. He didn't understand what was it about the young Pict woman that brought out the fierce need to protect her. What puzzled him even more was how he had never spoken a word of the strange, harsh language yet he could understand perfectly when Senua pleaded him to stay with her, almost as if something slumbering within him had awoken and recognised the words. It was similar to that of a memory from childhood; a distant sensation resurfaced from long forgotten past, still there, but buried beneath the passage of years.

Was it possible he had dealt with her kind before? Leifr could barely remember anything from before the day he was found washed ashore by his kinsmen. The only links to his past were a name that had been on his lips upon waking up—which Leifr presumed was his own—and the numerous scars that painted a picture of a seasoned warrior.

He could think of several unpleasant theories for his mysterious connection to the natives. Perhaps he was a Pict himself who was left behind and taken in by the Northmen. There was also a possibility of being taken as a slave by the Picts and having lived with them long enough to absorb the language.

Leifr's thoughts returned to the girl occupying his bed.

If he was reading her correctly, she seemed to think she knew him. The Pict had shown obvious relief when he had taken her under his wing. Her lack of apprehension to his touches even after being nearly ravaged just moments before, the poorly concealed longing in her eyes whenever she thought he wasn't watching—all of it told a story similar to a betrothed maiden waiting for her intended to return from a long voyage. But why would he be involved with a Pict? Surely he would've been content with screwing her a few times before selling her to the highest bidder and moving on to the next whore?

The mere thought stung like a needle at his heart. Leifr couldn't explain his feelings towards the girl anymore than his capability to understand her language.

"Leifr Afkarr, I heard you reclaimed the girl! How's the Pict in bed? Does her skill to please measure with that wonderfully savage fighting spirit?" Agmundr clapped a friendly arm around Leifr's shoulders and offered a tankard of weak ale, a snaggletoothed grin dancing on his weathered face.

Accepting the beverage, Leifr kept his expression carefully neutral. "Remains to be seen. That moron roughened her up and I don't intend to have her die to her wounds during sex."

"I'm sure a savage like her can take a little pain." The wolfskin berserker took a generous gulp of his drink followed by a hearty burp. "It's the least that bitch deserves after biting Yngvarr's finger off. Squealed like a piglet on his way to the healer."

Leifr had to bite back the smirk that threatened to emerge at the thought of it.

Casually, the elder warrior continued to chatter and swirl his tankard. "Didn't she kill Skorri? We should honour him by donating our life force to him through the girl. Would also do good for the morale. A rough screw from all of us and a clean death to ensure the chief has enough stamina and a pretty plaything to keep him company on his way to Valhalla."

Sheer fury and possessiveness twisted Leifr's features into a dark scowl. "She's mine. _I_ defeated her, _I_ captured her." He jabbed a thumb on his breast for emphasis. "I will fuck her when I want and I will keep fucking her until I'm satisfied. The chief can have one of the Túath slaves."

Agmundr raised a hand in appeasement. "Didn't mean to imply otherwise. Just figured Skorri would've appreciated a good send-off. You can't deny there's poetic justice in it."

"Great. Now I'm surrounded by poets. Thought there was enough to endure with Yngvarr's hollering and talharpa-playing."

Agmundr laughed and emptied the remains of his ale on the ground. "To Skorri. Skál!"

Shaking his head, Leifr followed his friend's example. "Skál!"

* * *

 

Senua could tell it was getting dark outside when what little light had previously peered in through the crannies faded with the disappearance of the sun. Leifr had been gone for hours. Biting her lip and forcing herself up from the warmth and softness of the sheepskin covers, Senua limped to the pitiful remains of a fire Leifr had lit before leaving, and set to work. The least she could do was stoke the flames and make sure the Northman's home was nice and warm upon his return.

The ambience of crackling wood was interrupted by a mournful rumble. Senua hadn't eaten anything since setting out with Tharain that morning to complete all the necessarily rituals for Liathplathadh. She was famished.

An empty cauldron hung over the fire. Perhaps Leifr had foodstuffs she could prepare a meal out of? Looking up, Senua saw above the hearth dried herbs and loaves of bread as well as smoked lamb hanging from the kitchen beams. But how was she to reach them in her condition? She certainly wasn't tall enough.

Glancing around the large room, she spotted wooden barrels and boxes with runes carved on them. Peering inside one of the barrels, Senua's nose was assaulted by a strange, although not entirely unpleasant aroma. It was some sort of brown liquid. Hesitantly she dipped in a finger and tasted it. It was nothing like the sweet mead made of honey and heather that Senua was used to drinking, but it wasn't entirely unsavoury. At least she now had a way to reach the food. Rolling one of the unopened barrels next to the open hearth, Senua climbed on it with uncertain feet and coughed as she inhaled a puff of smoke.

The sound of faint footsteps coming outside the longhouse announced Leifr's return. Senua faced the door, looked down at her ruined clothes before quickly gathering the fur collar, leather and tartan against her bare chest for meager cover. Her Furies berated her for the way she was acting. After all, it was considered a regular practise to fight nude within her kin. Surely the Northmen were used to such a sight by now. But the domestic setting—and a foreign one at that—made Senua feel uneasy and exposed.

The wooden door opened with a creak.

Upon seeing the Pict standing on a barrel and staring at him like a deer would with an arrow pointed at it, Leifr froze and blinked in confusion.

"Hvat–?"

It was then that her knee decided it had had enough of stress for the day, and she teetered dangerously over the hearth.

Leifr was instantly beside Senua, pulling her back to safety and scooping her in his arms before she could fall down. Cheeks burning from embarrassment, Senua held on to her clothes with white knuckles and refused to meet the Northman's curious gaze. From the corner of her eye she noticed Leifr glance at the barrel and the kitchen beams. As if confirming what he must have already figured out, Senua's stomach growled once more.

A low chuckle vibrated against her side. Leifr set her down on the bed before plucking a loaf of rye bread and offering it to her. With a shy smile Senua accepted it. "Thanks."

"Þat var ekki", he muttered and sat next to her.

_He's been out all day just like she has._

_She should share, just like she did with Dillion._

For once Senua agreed with her Furies wholeheartedly.

Offering half of the loaf earnt her another soft chuckle from the Northman. It reminded her of Dillion's when he found out she had learnt to fight by watching him.

"Þak."

They ate in comfortable silence and watched the dance of flames and rising smoke in the open hearth. Senua noted the walls of Leifr's house were decorated with several ornate tapestries depicting events she had no knowledge of, and wondered whether they were bought or plundered. From what she had seen, there were only a handful of womenfolk in the settlement and none of them appeared to share characteristics with the fair-haired men, which meant none of the tapestries were likely made by the residents. Why had none of the Northmen brought their wives with them? Had there been someone in Leifr's life before he left to brave the stormy seas? Senua wished she could've probed the silent man next to her for answers. Never even in her wildest dreams had she thought of having the opportunity to converse with those she had seen as manifestations of evil for so long.

Having finished his share, Leifr turned to eye the Pict. He was suddenly back on his feet, as if having remembered something and hurried to the door where he had dropped whatever he had been carrying.

"Ek fœrða með mik þat hér til þik."

Draped over his arm were clothing unlike anything Senua had ever seen before. The first one was an ankle-length chemise made of white linen with colourful embroidery on the collar and cuffs. Leifr gestured Senua to put it on. With no means to fix her own clothes, she had little choice but to accept the foreign garb.

Senua removed her warrior pin and held onto it before discarding the ruined bodice and trousers, leaving only the well-worn shoes on. Even with her back turned towards the Northman, Senua was keenly aware of being stared at and wondered how he saw her. Was she comparable to the women of the North? Did he even remember any of them after his resurrection? The Furies giggled like immature children at her sudden state of self-consciousness.

The cloth felt soft and comfortable against her skin. Leifr helped her put on a woolen dress and without appearing to give it much thought, took Senua's brooch and fastened the straps on each shoulder with it and an oval-shaped bronze brooch. Did some dormant part of him remember gifting her the pin and its significance? Senua knew she shouldn't get her hopes up, just as Tharain had warned, but the temptation was too great.

Leifr retrieved her belt and put it on for her, letting his hands hover over her hips for a few seconds longer than necessary, before taking a step back and giving a stoic nod of approval. The belt felt too light on her hips without the comforting weight of Liathplathadh.

Was this what women of the Northmen wore?

Experimentally, Senua stood on her good leg and stretched the injured leg in an imitation of a very slow and powerless kick. The flinch of pain didn't escape Leifr, who guided Senua to join him on the bed. Glancing down at the long hem of the dress, Senua concluded the garment was of a woman, of a _wife_ —not a warrior. It wasn't impossible to fight in, but considerably more restraining than her leather trousers. She could foresee the long ends of the chemise getting caught in all manner of bushes and undergrowth or becoming a heavy burden from soaking up lake-water when fleeing from enemies.

The thought gave her pause.

Given the chance, would she run? From Leifr? From Dillion?

_She needs to get back to Tharain and Delerei and warn them._

_She wants to stay with Dillion._

_Can't she take Dillion with her?_

_The others would notice. They would search for him. She'd lead them straight to the village!_

_Who's to say Leifr wouldn't betray her to the Northmen?_

Forcing the apprehension to dissolve from her features, Senua looked up and was startled to find the usually stony, dark blue eyes soft with something akin to fondness. The light from the hanging lamps bathed Leifr's bare torso in its warm glow, hiding the scars and carved runes beneath hues of orange. Her breath hitched when his hands reached to remove the headpiece made of jade and leather, her protection against the darkness.

Even though Senua was ready to lay down arms and even her very soul for Dillion, she wasn't brave enough to face the threat of darkness without any protection. Not even Dillion could shield her from the internal battles – all he could give was a little help. A little hope.

Shaking her head timidly in refusal, Senua gently pulled his hands away from the headpiece. "Please, don't. I need it."

To her relief, Leifr seemed to understand and made no attempts to pry his hands from Senua's, instead intertwining their fingers and resting his bearded chin against her scarred forehead. For the first time since encountering the Northmen in the forest, Senua felt safe enough to close her eyes and trust she would come to no harm. The soft kiss placed on her temple warmed her more than the open hearth or the man's close proximity.

"Kom", Dillion's voice whispered in her ear as Senua was gently lowered beneath the sheepskin rugs. "Hvíl."

Warm fingers stroked her face, calming even the Furies enough to quiet down in contentment. Through the crack of her lashes, Senua saw Leifr lean his back against the wall and keep watch, his other hand resting against the hilt of his longsword.

She realised then that she couldn't leave Dillion, not after finally reuniting with him. Somehow she would make this work and persuade him to come with her to Tharain's village, where they both belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. c: Here's translations for the chapter and a doodle of how I imagine Leifr to look like:
> 
> Liathplathadh = blue flash (gaelic)  
> broch = a stone tower where Picts would barricade themselves in during an attack
> 
> Finn hana! = Find her!  
> Andskoti! = Fuck! (literally means 'enemy')  
> Pettr bikkja! = Pict bitch!  
> Hon eru hér! = She's here!  
> Þú! Pettr mær! Stǫðva! = You! Pict girl! Stop!  
> Hvat ger vér með hana? = What do we do with her?  
> Hon kømr með oss. = She will come with us.  
> Bíð. Hon blœðr. = Wait. She's bleeding.  
> rassragr = faggot (emasculated, softhearted)  
> Túath, Túatha (pl) = what Irish called themselves back then  
> Kom hér, min meyla. = Come here, my little girl. (vulgar term)  
> Hverr eru þú? = Who are you?  
> Ek kenni þik eigi, þó... = I don't know you, yet...  
> Ná? = Well?  
> Ek læt eigi. = I'm not leaving.  
> Skil þú mik? = Do you understand me?  
> Bíð hér. = Wait here.  
> Afkarr = Strange (byname)  
> Hvat? = What?  
> Þat var ekki. = It was nothing.  
> Þak. = Thanks. (very informal)  
> Ek fœrða með mik þat hér til þik. = I brought this to you.  
> Kom. = Come.  
> Hvíl. = Rest.
> 
>   
>    
> 


	3. Chapter 2

Senua woke up to the sound of humming. The voice was sonorous, nothing like Dillion's soft timbre. Blinking blearily, she saw a man roughly her father's age sitting by the hearth, whittling away at a block of wood, and recognised him as the man dressed in wolfskins from the forest. Fire reflected from the curved blade of his battle axe like a silent warning. Senua knew a fellow warrior when she saw one; this man was no grunt with a weapon beyond his status.

His humming ceased.

"Svá, þú eru vakinn nú. Góðr." He didn't even turn to look at her, merely acknowledged she was awake and blew wood dust off the half-formed sculpture of a wolf.

Immediately up and alert, Senua fumbled for something to defend herself with, but found only the empty sheath and Druth's iron mirror hanging from her belt. Hadn't Dillion left her a weapon? A dagger, even a hunting knife would do. He wouldn't leave her defenseless after what happened with the sand-haired Northman, would he? Where had he gone?

_He must have left her!_

_No, Dillion would never leave her like that._

_He isn't Dillion. He's been Leifr all along. He's one of them. She can't trust any of them!_

_That can't be right. He sounds and acts like Dillion. He helped her._

_Leifr must've sold her to that wolfman._

"Friðr!" The man's sudden command froze her in place and silenced the Furies' quarrelling. His eyes crinkled in a friendly manner, thin lips curving into a crooked smile as he raised his hands in appeasement. To prove a point, the man slowly disarmed himself and threw the weapon to her side. "Ek skal eigi gera þik mein."

Only once her fingers were securely wrapped around the handle of the heavy axe, did Senua feel the tension fade from her shoulders. If he was one of the berserkers as his lack of clothing suggested, she would have have tough time beating him even without her injury. Still, at least this way she had a chance at all unlike as an unarmed cripple.

The man turned his back to Senua and yelled. "Einnarmr!"

The door to the longhouse opened and revealed a pale man with auburn hair and sunken eyes. The Túath's well-worn tunic hung loosely around his malnourished figure as he fell on his knees by the wolfman's bare feet. While the berserker was muttering something to the slave and gesturing towards her, Senua took notice of the skittish man's hand, or rather, the lack of one; the sleeve was tied to a knot where his elbow should've been.

"Master Agmundr bids you good morning and suggests you leave the axe. You won't need it."

It felt impossibly good to hear someone speak familiar words after having to interpret gestures, silence and a language she had little knowledge of for so long.

The wolfman, Agmundr, put the sculpture and knife aside and spoke, his cordial tone a surprising contrast to his throaty voice. The Túath listened carefully to his master's words. "Master Agmundr says Leifr Afkarr asked him to look after you while he's away."

He paused, lips stretching to a worried line and twisted his bony hands in discomfort. "He also says you stink."

Senua blinked, unable to decide how to feel about the statement.

Agmundr grinned and spoke more.

"Master Agmundr says you are to join the other women of the village in their weekly cleansing. He says he won't allow Leifr Afkarr turn his home into a sty, no matter how enamoured he might be." It was almost comical to hear such lighthearted words coming from the anxious translator's mouth. "I will escort you there."

Timidly, the Túath offered his good arm for Senua to use as support. Agmundr followed them at a leisurely pace from a distance, merely making sure the two slaves wouldn't get any foolish ideas.

Once Senua was certain Agmundr was out of earshot, she whispered to the Túath, "What's your name?"

The redhead glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but didn't dare turn his head. "My master named me Einnarmr. It means one arm."

"And what do your parents call you?"

For a brief moment Einnarmr's shoulders sagged as if by an invisible weight, but he quickly recovered and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They're dead and so is the man I once was. Master Agmundr's will is my law and there's nothing more to it."

Frowning, Senua turned to glance back at the trailing wolfman, but Einnarmr stopped her with a hissed protest. "Don't act suspiciously. The less reason you give them to be mistrustful of you, the more freedom they give you. You don't want to be chained to your post, do you?"

Mutely, Senua shook her head in agreement and allowed Einnarmr to take her to the heart of the village.

It was early in the morning. The sun was still partly hidden behind the horizon, but the town was buzzing with activity. Next to one of the smaller buildings were several dozen half-dressed men with damp skin and hair. A half-starved child with an iron collar on his neck served a great basin of water to the men so they could wash their hands, faces and hair before blowing their noses and spitting into the basin. Some used tiny spoons to remove wax from their ears, while others removed facial or body hair with razors and tweezers. All of them appeared to put much effort into combing and braiding their hair.

Senua tugged at the Túath's sleeve to draw his attention. "What's happening?"

"Today is washing day or 'laugardagr' as the masters call it. Every sixth day of the week we are required to cleanse and wash ourselves. The women's bathhouse is further ahead."

While scouring the crowd of grooming men for Leifr's woad-eagled chest, Senua caught a glimpse of a familiar mop of beaded, sandy locks. The sight of his injured hand wrapped in cloth was enough to freeze her insides as images of terror and abuse resurfaced in her mind’s eye. The Northman's companions snickered and elbowed him, completely oblivious to how the poet's eyes darkened with enmity and humiliation.

"Keep your head down. You look like a warrior sizing up her foes. The masters don't take kindly to defiant thralls."

Following Einnarmr's instructions, Senua ducked her head but not before demanding in a hushed tone, "What are they saying?"

The Túath grimaced, clearly wishing the Pict would stop asking questions. "They're, ah, consoling Yngvarr Fjórisfingur, saying he was lucky his finger was bit off instead of his, err, member. They say 'Fourfingers' is more likely to strike fear in the hearts of their foes than 'Cockless'."

They hurried past the men, not wishing to attract any attention on themselves.

The women's bathhouse was much smaller than the men's, and for a good reason—only four women were present, helping each other strip from the many layers of cloth and open elaborate braids hidden beneath headscarves. Einnarmr guided Senua to the women.

"I'm not allowed to go further. Tuilelaith, Ùna, Mallaidh and Fíona will assist you. I will take you back to master's home once you're clean." Einnarmr turned tail and scuttled off like a startled hare. What could've made the poor man so nervous?

One of the women approached her. Unlike the other two adults, she was short like Senua and her dark hair was long and uncut. Tattoos in the style of the Picts from the kingdom of Fortriu peeked beneath the linen chemise. Her eyes were grey and serious, but her joyless smile felt welcoming nonetheless.

"You are Senua? Leifr Afkarr tasked me with finding you suitable clothing. I see they fit you well. I am Ùna, wife of Ǫssurr. Come, I shall teach you our ways." Ùna supported Senua while Tuilelaith, a freckled Túath on the cusp of maturity, helped Senua unfasten the brooches and remove her woolen dress.

Senua blinked at the other Pict and felt the day-old woad on her forehead crumble as she scowled. " _Our_ ways? But you're not one of them."

Ùna's smile was wan when she shook her head sadly. "We are, and now you are, too. They own us. You should count yourself lucky."

"Lucky? How is being captured lucky?"

Fíona, a thin and frail-looking Túath woman, pointed at Senua's neck. "You do not have an iron collar, but I see the imprint. Whoever removed it has taken a liking to you." She paused and trailed a finger over the bruise. "Once captured, a thrall is sold, used and abused with hunger and hardship as their constant companions until an early death reaps them." Her green eyes found Senua's. "Or they are like us: lucky and spared, with only a husband's needs to satisfy."

"We might not have married willingly, but it is the best outcome a woman of our origin and status can hope for", Ùna affirmed. "My brothers were sold in Hedeby, while my parents were sacrificed to the Norse gods. Only I am still alive and free to live with dignity and without the burden of shackles. Should the man take you as his wife, it is in your best interest to give in and forget the past."

She had wanted to marry Dillion before his death. She still wanted to.

_He's not Dillion. He's Leifr._

_It doesn't matter. Leifr has Dillion's soul and she can't marry Dillion without marrying Leifr._

_Does he even want to marry her? She's nothing like these women._

_Hela said he would not be content in anyone else's arms. He must want her._

Senua wasn't ready to abandon hope and succumb to the Northmen. The homes of these women might have been razed to the ground and their families sold and killed, but Tharain's village was still standing. She would find a way to escape and take Dillion and any willing slave with her. Saying nothing of her plans, Senua removed her clothes, sans her headpiece, and followed the women inside the small house.

The room temperature was sweltering, worse than even the hottest summer in recent memory. Next to the fireplace with stones was a long, wooden bench to which the women ushered Senua to sit down on. She watched Mallaidh toss water on the hot stones to produce steam and gritted her teeth when the heat descended from the roof. Why would these people participate in such strange practises? Senua felt like she was back in the land of mist and fog, running through the flames to challenge Surt. Druth had never mentioned such strange customs. Were slaves spared from this torture?

And if she were to marry, would Leifr expect her to go through this on a weekly basis?

Following little Tuilelaith's example, Senua took a bar of soap and began to scrub the year's worth of filth until her skin was pink and raw, and burning from the accursed heat. After Mallaidh had helped Senua scrub her back, they finished the strange ritual by washing their faces and hair as the men had by using a large basin filled with lakewater. Once they had dried themselves, the women stepped outside and dressed up in clean clothes that a slave had left for them.

Einnarmr was already waiting, his back turned towards the women to give them privacy. His curly hair was damp and his tunic had been scrubbed clean from dirt.

Senua felt Ùna's hand on her arm. "Remember what I told you. I can see you are a warrior and it is in your nature to resist, but for your own good—don't. You may have your master's favour for now, but eventually the fascination will die. Unless you earn his affection, he will discard you to a life of torment. Once you accept your lot, I will be here to guide you, as I have Mallaidh, Fíona and Tuilelaith." With a final reassuring squeeze on her arm, the women went their separate ways to begin their day's work within their respective households.

Einnarmr approached Senua, circling and studying her with squinted eyes just like her father Zynbel had whenever believing she was hiding something. The Túath came to a stop, inhaled her scent and after a moment's consideration nodded curtly. "Much better. You are ready to begin your duties. Master Agmundr expects a hot meal waiting for him and Leifr Afkarr once they return home."

"They both live there? I thought it was Leifr's house."

"Leifr Afkarr lives in master Agmundr's home. However, master Agmundr sometimes stays outdoors to connect with the spirit of the Wolf."

Senua could recall no stories from Druth speaking of such practice, but didn't demand for a clarification. Instead, she accepted the offered arm and allowed herself to be led back to what she thought had been her sole sanctuary from the Northmen.

Most of the men had finished their business by the bathhouse grounds, leaving only the iron-collared slaves to clean themselves with lake water under the watchful eye of a guard. Despite the Northmen's strange obsession with cleanliness, it appeared that the lowliest of slaves were not allowed inside the house of steam and torture. Senua wondered if she'd ever understand such a backwards culture. Perhaps if she took a page from Druth and learnt to communicate with her captors—and most importantly Dillion—she would have a better chance of finding a weakness to exploit within the Norse settlement and make her escape.

"Einnarmr, will you teach me their language?"

The Túath's usually reserved features lit up in surprise and delight. "It would certainly help both our positions. We aren't allowed to speak in any other tongue while within their earshot."

"Then you will help me?"

A sly smile curved Einnarmr chapped lips. "If you reserve me a slice of bread and a slab of smoked meat within the folds of your dress, I'll teach you all I know."

* * *

Leifr studied his handiwork, a crutch carved from beech wood. It should serve the Pict girl well and allow her to move without constant need for a minder. He had left early that morning in hopes of bathing and finishing crafting before the thralls were done preparing day meal. At first Leifr had been hesitant to leave Senua's side, only deeming it safe to straighten his back after a night of restless dozing once Agmund agreed to keep an eye on the girl in his absence.

The focused crease on Leifr's brow eased when his thoughts returned to the previous night.

The girl had been quick to fall asleep under his gentle caresses, which proved how exhausted she must've been from the day's ordeals. For a time Leifr had entertained himself by counting the numerous silvery pink scars visible beneath layers of dirt and woad on her face, neck and hands. Not even Ǫssurr's wife, a Pict covered in colourful tattoos from head to toe, was as thoroughly marked by life. How different the two Picts' lives must've been had Skorri not led his men to Orkney.

Absently he had traced the sharp contour of Senua's collarbones, the paint peeling beneath coarse fingertips. Like most of the men within the settlement, Leifr was starved for a woman's touch. Yet despite having Senua completely at his mercy after saving her from Yngvarr, Leifr could not bring himself to act on his desires and force intimacy onto her. Whether his restraint was due to pity or intrigue, he could not tell.

It must've been puzzling for the old berserker to find Leifr dozing against the wall, chin to chest, next to the covered Pict.

" _That can't be a comfortable position to sleep in, son."_

Before even fully awake, Leifr had drawn his sword and pointed it at the intruder, blearily blinking to clear whatever dream still clung to his vision.

" _Expecting someone to come and steal her?"_ Agmundr had asked with a teasing grin.

Shrugging, Leifr had put the sword away and made sure the sheepskin rugs were comfortably around Senua. " _Plenty of men in line for her company."_

" _I don't see why you go through the trouble of dressing her when you haven't even tested her worth."_

Another shrug. " _If what Ǫssurr claims about Pictish concubines is true, the girl will satisfy me well enough."_

Agmundr's tone had dropped to low rumble, as if expecting Senua to be eavesdropping on them. " _She's not a mere ordinary thrall, lad, but a warrior. You'd best remember that or you'll be the next to visit the healer."_

" _And I am no Yngvarr. I know how to deal with disobedient thralls."_ As he trailed a finger over the cauterised slash on her forehead, Leifr had been amused to notice the sleeping Pict wrinkle her nose as if giving her opinion on the subject matter. " _I'll relish the challenge"_ , he had concluded.

Leifr could not explain it but there was a connection between the two of them and he needed to understand what it was, to make sense of his existence. The only clues to his previous life were locked behind the fragmented images Leifr had experienced when meeting Senua. No matter how he strained to remember his life leading up to his arrival in Hrossey, all Leifr ever could conjure in his mind were brief, disconnected memories that held no meaning on their own.

_Oppressive darkness all around him and a distant flash of light far above him. Saltwater flooding his lungs, bubbles from a muted cry tickling his face and the sensation of freezing waters pulling him towards the bottom of the sea._

_Rotten fingers caressing his bare torso, a haunting song full of possessiveness ringing in his ears until invisible shackles reduced his awareness and held his mind prisoner. Everlasting stench of putrid wounds that no downpour could wash away following wherever he wandered._

_Branches of a great oak extending up towards fair summer skies. The quiet swish of its leaves swaying in a gentle breeze. The brilliant colours of cowslips, dog roses and bluebells dotting tall grass for as far as eye could see. A short burst of giggles akin to wind chimes from beside him as a feminine hand points at clouds of various shapes sailing overhead._

He couldn't make any sense of the images nor his sudden ability to understand the Pictish language. All he knew was that only through Senua he could unravel his shrouded past.

Setting the chisel aside, Leifr ran a hand over the smooth curve of the crutch meant to support the Pict's elbow.

Although she was now considered his—and by extension Agmundr's—thrall and expected to serve, Leifr had specifically told the wolfskin berserker to spare her from the more laborious tasks due to the injury received from Skorri. After all, what good would she be to them if her knee never healed? Crippled thralls were put to death.

Imagining the short Pict girl besting their burly chief brought a fond smile to his lips. What he would've given to see the fight with his own eyes. Leifr hadn't exactly developed any close ties to the man in the short time he had had lived in Hrossey. To Skorri, Leifr had been an unreliability, a straggler with no memories and no place within their close-knit community. Had Agmundr not vouched for him and let Leifr prove his worth with a sword in hand, he might've been cast out and declared an outlaw, enslaved or even sacrificed with the unwanted and unprofitable thralls to appease their ever bloodthirsty gods.

Leifr wasn't alone in his dislike for the dead chief, however. There had been increasing discontentment within the ranks, even murmurs about a possible coup among some of the more hot-headed men. Leifr tried steer clear from politics and not get too involved, preferring to follow Agmundr's lead when it came to such matters. Despite this, he wasn't unaware of the possible causes for the chief's declining popularity.

All of the townsfolk were landless younger sons. In a society that practised primogeniture this meant they were heirs to nothing, and no self-respecting woman of the North would ever bind herself to a life of uncertainty with a man of no wealth—at least not without her family's approval. For these reasons it had been easy enough for Skorri to rally the men to his side, to set sail to the unknown and look for farmland and other means to make a living.

At first the men had been content to leave their old lives behind and seek their fortune in foreign lands. They had founded their small community, enslaved nearby tribes to work on the farms and stolen their livestock. But when Skorri had a taste of the profits that could be made in thrall trade, he could not keep his eyes off the Túathan shores. His greed and constant raids to remote villages and monasteries got so numerous that half of the men had to give up raiding altogether to ensure their farmlands would survive and they'd have enough food to feed themselves, the thralls and the livestock. Eventually the community found a balance between farming and raiding, but even then not all were content.

Some of the older warriors were unhappy with their empty homes, for no gold could replace the warmth of a wife's touch or the joy of raising a child. It hardly came as a surprise that the husbands of the four thralls-turned-wives were all in their early thirties, while the younger men were content screwing thralls before taking them to Hedeby to be sold. However, it was not the simple folk of Túathan or Pictish villages that Skorri sought to enslave, but learned men of monasteries for whom men of the East were willing to pay a king's ransom.

Leifr had even heard talk of men wishing to return to the Motherland, to show their wealth and win the heart of a Norse maid. Unfortunately for them, Skorri had seen such musings as treason, for he had been one of the many minor chieftains to leave when Harald inn hárfagri founded the kingdom of Norway.

But the man was gone now, and despite not seeing eye-to-eye with him, it fell to Leifr and the rest of the townspeople to ensure their chief made the journey to the afterlife, lest he remain as a revenant and curse their crops.

As Leifr passed the slave pens, he saw that the thralls had already been released to work, save for the females. The elderly shaman was inspecting each pen, most likely looking for suitable leftover Túatha to sacrifice for the dead warriors.

"Beginning the day early, Ráðugr?" Leifr called.

The key keeper snorted. "Need all the hands we can get to build the pyre for Chief. The wives have already taken the measurements and are working on the funeral gowns."

The mention of the women reminded Leifr of the crutch he had to deliver. He didn't exactly have high hopes for a one-armed thrall to serve as a support for a crippled one.

Leifr took a shortcut through the town and saw the townsfolk were already preparing for the ceremony that would be held in seven days after the funeral. Colourful flags were hung from rooftops and the marketplace was made ready for the many merchants the celebrations would attract from other colonies. Blacksmiths, bronze-casters, stone carvers, cup makers, potters, bead makers, carpenters and leatherworkers—all were hard at work. The air was filled with delicious smells coming from the ale brewery. Sounds of chatter, clanging hammers, sizzling metal and cutting of leather could be heard all across town. He even spotted Yngvarr fingering his beloved talharpa with his good hand and humming, possibly working on an ode for their fallen chief.

Once past the town, Leifr noticed the foundation of a funeral pyre on the hill overlooking the shore where Agmundr had originally found him. Building it were a dozen Túatha thralls alongside a handful of warriors. The pyre was still in the early stages and would take several more hours before it was finished. The precise work was necessary to ensure the heat would be located in such a way that the bodies would burn effectively.

A gentle breeze brought the pleasant smell of freshly baked bread from the direction of Agmundr's longhouse. Leifr's stomach rumbled in anticipation, spurring him to jog the rest of the way home.

"Fyyy...rir… gef. Mik."

He paused at the door and listened to the muffled voice. Was Senua trying to speak Norse?

"Almost. Repeat after me. 'Forgive me.'"

Leifr had never heard Einnarmr speak in his native tongue and was a little taken back upon realising he could understand the thrall perfectly, just as he had understood Senua.

"For...give me."

"Excellent! That's a good phrase to know when someone is displeased with you."

Neither of the thralls heard Leifr sneak in. Both were by the hearth with their backs towards the door. Einnarmr appeared to be stirring something within the cauldron while Senua was cutting vegetables. On the table was the source of the tantalising smell—a loaf of bread hidden beneath a linen cloth. Placed beside it were two sets of cups, bowls and plates, meant for the Northmen.

"What is the most important phrase I should know?"

"'Yes, master.' Whenever you're addressed or something is asked of you, that's what you say."

"Yes, master."

Leifr bit back a grin. The girl sounded so serious, like she was making an oath rather than grovelling at someone's feet.

"No, no, no. Not like that", Einnarmr scolded. "You have to sound humble and make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible. Never look into master Agmundr's eyes, he doesn't take kindly to any signs of defiance."

"What about Leifr?"

"What about me?"

The startled thralls jumped in near unison and turned to face the Northman.

"Leifr Afkarr, you've returned!" Einnarmr immediately fell on his knees. "The day meal is soon ready to be served!"

Leifr paid the Túath no mind, instead focusing on the shadowy figure of Senua and beckoned her over. Hesitantly, she limped to him and nearly lost her footing, but Leifr was ready to catch her and pulled the Pict beneath the light of a hanging lamp.

He hardly recognised her without the dirt and crumpling paint. She was no longer the feral child rolling in moss he had met in the forest, but a woman rivalling those of the North. Uncertainly, she clung to his arms to keep her balance and occasionally glanced towards the still kneeling Túath for guidance.

"Sit." Leifr helped her to settle on a bench while he retrieved the crutch. "I made you this."

Senua turned the wooden pole around in her hands, unsure what to make of it. "What–?"

The exotic lilt of her accent had a funny effect on him. A swarm of butterflies seemed to awaken in the pit of his stomach, their nervous fluttering tensing every muscle in his body. Ignoring the strange sensation, Leifr took the crutch from her and demonstrated its proper use. "Let your elbow rest against the curve. Like this."

The girl's features lit up as understanding dawned on her and she accepted the crutch. It was like watching a newborn calf stumble and take its first shaky steps—that's how Leifr justified his need to hover protectively next to her, at any rate. She didn't seem to mind, though, when she flashed him a shy smile that could have melted the glaciers of his homeland.

Heavy footsteps from outside warned the thralls of their master's return. Einnarmr leapt next to the cauldron while Senua hobbled back to peeling fruits and cutting vegetables.

The door flung open, revealing the old wolf who wasted no time with pleasantries. "Einnarmr, have you familiarised the girl with her duties?"

"Yes, master Agmundr."

"Then why is the meal not yet served?"

"At once, master Agmundr!" Einnarmr fetched a bowl for the stew. Senua moved to help the Túath, one-handed as he was, but the berserker pulled her back.

"Hold up, girly. Aren't you even going to thank Leifr for all he's done? He took you in, clothed you, watched over you and now even wastes his morning making you a crutch."

Uncertainly, Senua looked back and forth between the two Northmen, clearly struggling to understand what was wanted of her.

"Yes, master." She offered with a modest bow of her head, earning an amused snort from the berserker.

"Let the girl be. She already thanked me", Leifr lied.

Agmundr raised a brow knowingly at the younger man, but released his hold on the Pict. "She's not a pet, lad. If she doesn't give you the respect you deserve, you take it by force."

Leifr merely grunted in acknowledgement before sitting down at the table. Senua served them the stew, buttered bread, fruit, vegetables and ale. The stew was flavourless and the bread was burnt on one side. It was obvious which of the thralls had prepared the meal, but Leifr didn't have the heart to comment on the quality knowing the older man was certain to give them their due.

The two thralls stood on the side, ready to serve should their masters call. From the corner of his eye, Leifr saw Senua fidget and hungrily eye the food. Curiously Einnarmr seemed content and didn't even sneak a glance at the table as he usually did. Leifr knew the thrall wasn't brave enough to steal food after Agmundr had caught him red-handed and cut his arm off. He must've found a way to use Senua to fill his belly.

Once they finished eating, Agmundr let out a hearty burp to signal that he was done and pushed his plate aside. Only the burnt side of his breadloaf was left on the plate which he tossed on the floor for the thralls. "You two will have to do better if you intend to eat tonight. I should have you whipped." His tone was almost jovial despite the threatening words.

Einnarmr fell next to Agmundr's feet and wailed loudly. "Please, master! I had no part in preparing the food! Please don't punish me!"

"Be quiet!" The berserker kicked the Túath half-heartedly. "I could tell. For once the stew didn't have any of those cursed herbs you always insist on putting in every dish. For that improvement alone I will have you two spared."

"Oh, thank you, master Agmundr!"

The thrall was silenced once more when the Northman raised his hand. "However, if she doesn't improve her cooking by tomorrow, you will share her punishment. She's now your responsibility."

With that Agmundr left. Leifr pretended not to notice when Senua picked up the burnt pieces of bread and hid them in her sleeve for later consumption.

"Einnarmr, finish clearing the table and take Senua to the field. Milking the cows will be her task from now on."

He turned to leave as well to begin his work on the farm when he felt a small tug on his waistwrap. Head still bowed, Senua peered up at him and cautiously smiled as she clenched the crutch. "Tha...nk you."

She still had a long way to go when it came to speaking Norse.

He gently lifted her chin and offered a faint smile in return. "Don't mention it."

* * *

Einnarmr led Senua to the lush fields on the outskirts of the village where the cattle grazed. They followed the sound of cheerful humming to a lone figure of a girl by whose feet were several iron buckets meant for milking. Upon hearing the pair approach, Tuilelaith pushed her windblown curls out of her eyes and greeted them with an excited wave. Out of all the wives of the Northmen she seemed the least affected by her new life, despite having a husband nearly two decades older than her. Senua could only hope it was due to Tuilelaith's husband's courtesy and restraint. How else could someone so young be happy, living with a man old enough to be her father?

Tuilelaith licked her finger and held it up to feel the direction of the breeze. "You're in luck! There's a favourable wind, so calling the cattle will be easy. I will teach you the herding call or 'kulning' as the Northmen call it."

The cows were scattered throughout the landscape, some being as far away as the edge of the highlands where tall grass ended and rocky shores began. From Senua's experience only a well-trained canine could shepherd with ease in such a scenario, but the Northmen didn't seem to share her view. The only dogs she ever saw were kept as guardians of the home. She had even witnessed a group of men betting on dogs that had been coaxed into fighting each other. How could the little Túath possibly do an animal's job? Intrigued, Senua waited.

Tuilelaith let out a clear, high-pitched call that could've easily been a mournful song without words. There were no mountains for the sound to bounce back from, but the wind carried the girl's melodious cries all the way to the sea and beyond. Gooseflesh covered Senua's arms as she listened. The haunting melody reminded her of Hela's song, for it certainly didn't sound of this world or like any song she had ever heard within her own community.

The steady clatter of cowbells grew louder as the cattle began to move towards the caller. To think such a powerful voice could come from such a tiny body. Tuilelaith held on to the last note, letting it linger for a moment longer before turning to grin at Senua. "What do you think?"

Whatever the Pict had been about to say was drowned out beneath the sudden holler from a foreign voice. "Tullan!"

They spotted a young Northman, no older than fourteen summers, jogging towards them. His head was shaved on the sides while the remaining short, blond hair was braided. Beneath his leather vest he wore a rather shabby linen tunic. "Tullan, I heard your call and I've come!"

"Víðhugsi," Tuilelaith acknowledged with a mischievous smirk. "Since you've answered the herding call, does that make you a cow?" The ease with which she could adjust from her native tongue to the Northmen's was impressive.

Einnarmr snorted, but quickly feigned coughing when the Northman fixed him with a glare.

"Even a mere man can confuse such a call with an elven song." Víðhugsi defended. "Imagine my surprise when I didn't find dancing elves, but little Tullan belting out!"

Tuilelaith linked arms with Senua. "I'm teaching Senua to call the cows, so we can milk them and make cheese."

The young man's beardless features lit up as if he'd just received his parents' inheritance. "Will you make me a gallon of buttermilk, Tullan? You know how much I like it, and yours was always the best."

"Víðy, you are such a child!" The little Túath scoffed. "You should be drinking ale like the other grownups. And why are you still wearing that shoddy shirt I made? Didn't Ùna make you a new one?"

Víðhugsi shrugged. "She did, but I like yours better."

Senua and Einnarmr exchanged amused glances. It was clear that this was a recurring scene between the freckled Túath and lanky Northman.

Víðhugsi crossed his arms, a conspiring glint in his eye. "Look, if you make me that gallon, I'll give you any glass bead you like."

That seemed to catch the young Túath's attention. "Any?"

"Make me cottage cheese and I'll even make one specifically for you, free of charge."

Tuilelaith's warm hazel eyes twinkled like little stars as she eagerly shook hands with the boy. "Deal!"

Then she addressed the Pict in Gaeilge, going completely against all the warnings Einnarmr had given Senua about using other languages than Norse in the Northmen's company. "Come on, Senua, we have to round up the cows and get to work."

Strangely enough Víðhugsi didn't seem to even notice the breach in protocol. Perhaps he was all too happy to ignore such mishaps for the promise of his favourite treat or maybe—and this is what Senua personally leant towards more—it was because it was Tuilelaith and no other.

Just to be on the safe side, Senua stuck to Einnarmr's teachings, pronouncing the foreign word with much uncertainty. "How?"

"Just do what I did. Shout at the top of your lungs, but make a little song out of it. Remember, you have to beckon them, so try to use a very inviting tone and a light pitch. Imagine you're calling to a child."

It couldn't be that hard, could it?

"Okay."

Senua took a deep breath and yelled. The harsh sound, akin to a warrior's battlecry, bore little resemblance to Tuilelaith's melodious calls. The cows certainly seemed to think so as they turned tail and scattered further apart to seek refuge from the Pict's unholy screeching.

"Freyja's tits!" Víðhugsi removed hands from his ears and roared with laughter. "That's sure to put even the revenants to shame!"

Not about to accept defeat, especially with a Northman-child mocking her, Senua set off to the nearest cow with the aid of her crutch, seething all the while. Once by the animal's side, she made shooing motions, waved her arms and crutch, even slapped its rear to make it move. When the stubborn creature refused to budge, Senua let out a litany of angry Pictish curses that would've ensured a beating from her father. Startled by the sudden verbal onslaught, the cow galloped away, straight towards the waiting Túatha and Northman.

By the time all of the cows were rounded, Senua was dead on her feet. Víðhugsi, on the other hand, was hunched over and clapping his thighs as tears of hilarity streamed down his cheeks. Einnarmr appeared to have left without a word to continue his errands as not risk his master's ire.

"You're really something. Never seen a cripple herd cows!" The Northman continued to chortle.

Tuilelaith patted the Pict's back comfortingly. "Don't worry about it, Senua. I'm good with animals and herding, but I can't make nice clothing to save my life. Likewise you must be better at something else."

"At least we can all agree that Tullan is better suited for beckoning and Sessi to drive them back to the fields. I'd say you two have good synergy."

Senua wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Sessi? It's Senua."

"If you're gonna live among us, you gotta fit in. Sessi's a good nickname."

_What would Dillion think of her new moniker?_

_Does Dillion even exist anymore?_

_Sessi. Sessi, Sessi, Sessi._

_She can change her name and clothes and even bathe like they do, but she'll never become one of them._

_She has to remember why she's here. She's not here to befriend the Northmen. She's here to get Leifr and extract Dillion._

_But what if Dillion can't be removed from Leifr? Then she'll be stuck with him._

_It's not so bad. They're very much alike. Maybe Leifr will learn to be Dillion._

_Maybe if Leifr learns the truth he will regain his identity as Dillion._

"Well, guess I should go and begin working on that bead, since it'll take me all night to inlay those patterns. But hey, it's worth it if I get my personal buttermilk supply. I'll see you around, Tullan, Sessi."

Víðhugsi hadn't taken so much as two steps when an angry voice halted him in his tracks.

"Víðhugsi, you son of a bitch, I've been looking all over for you!"

An unfamiliar Northman approached them. Unlike most of the townspeople, his hair was dark brown rather than the various shades of blond that Senua was accustomed to seeing. His face was mostly obscured by a scraggly beard and around his eyes were pronounced laughter lines. Senua supposed that he was often happy, but at that moment he appeared to be deadly serious.

"Hildr?" Víðhugsi visibly paled and uttered a curse beneath his breath.

"That's my husband", Tuilelaith quipped, completely unfazed by the older man's harsh language. Senua wondered whether the little Túath even fully understood the meaning of a husband and what would be expected of her as a wife once she was of age.

"Ever heard of the 'fool's grip', you snot-nosed brat? I know you put your hands on my wife!"

Víðhugsi slowly backed away. "It was just an accident, I swear! She was fitting this tunic on me and my hand slipped. Tullan, tell him!"

But to the lanky Northman's dismay Tuilelaith did nothing to help; she merely chewed on her lip to keep the traitorous grin from showing.

"Like Hel it did! Come out and face me like a man! That scrawny arse of yours deserves a lesson."

"Oh yeah? Pick on someone your own size, you old goat!"

"Goat?! Why you rotten little—!" But Víðhugsi was already sprinting away. "Come back here, coward!"

Tuilelaith could no longer hold back the giggles and burst into clear laughter, unashamedly clenching her aching stomach with reddened cheeks. The sight of her sweet innocence quelled the older Northman's fury.

"He'll get what's coming, in a duel ring if nothing else. You girls get back to work, eh?" Before heading back towards the village, Hildr ruffled his wife's hair with all the fondness of a proud father. Tuilelaith swatted his hand with a pout, but even Senua could tell she took delight in the gesture.

Meeting men like Hildr and Víðhugsi, Senua couldn't honestly claim that all Northmen were evil. There were familiar values like honour, love for family and desire to survive that she understood and even shared. Yet she wouldn't let their good humour and fascinating practises muddle her wits. There were still men like Yngvarr and Agmundr who cared little for her or her kind. Poor Einnarmr was a living proof of the cruelty the Nordic brutes practised. As was Dillion.

* * *

Leifr shifted his weight from one foot to the other and eyed the far stretching, grey curtain of clouds looming overhead. It blocked the sun and promised rain for the evening which, while good for the crops, was rather bothersome for the men who had volunteered to build a burial mound after the funeral proceedings. Working on slippery, muddy soil in the gloom of dusk was not something Leifr looked forward to.

All of the townsfolk, including wives and thralls, were gathered around the funeral pyre. On top of it were placed the bodies of Skorri and the three scouts Þiǫkkr, Tafi and Æisir, each dressed in pure white gowns of linen made specifically for the funeral. Nine female thralls of varying ages were chained next to the bodies to accompany their masters to the afterlife. Their protests and sobs were mostly ignored and even seen as appropriate, for there weren't many men shedding tears for their fallen leader. However, each man had removed their helmets and hats to show respect to the man who first led them to freedom from beneath the rule of a king.

By the foot of the pyre stood the elderly shaman and sole Norse woman of the settlement, who in a resounding voice accounted the deeds of bravery by the deceased in hopes of appealing to the Valkyries. Next to her, a Túath wife tall enough to be mistaken for a man from afar—Mallaidh, Leifr believed her to be called—sang a solemn requiem to honour the fallen warriors. Various goods, such as luxury items and everyday necessities, were gathered in a wooden chest to be buried later with the ashes of the dead. Among them were the warriors' weapons—now bent to signify the end of their owners' lives as well as to deter grave robbers.

"May their bodies burn bright and reveal to us the brave souls, before the smoke carries them to their rightful destination in the afterlife", the shaman concluded and lowered her torch to set the pyre ablaze.

The Túath wife's singing was drowned out by the tormented screams of the thralls who thrashed against their bonds in vain to escape the rapidly spreading flames.

With bated breath Leifr peered into the rising smoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of a departing soul. When one of the young thralls caught fire, he heard a sharp gasp from beside him and noticed Senua had covered her mouth with both hands as if to silence herself. Her crutch lay on the grass, forgotten, and her eyes were transfixed on the burning girl. She visibly trembled, but he couldn't tell whether it was from lack of support or an extreme emotional reaction. Acting on instinct, Leifr pulled the Pict girl to him, pressing her head against his chest to block out the sights and sounds.

A particularly shrill wail of a dying thrall left Leifr's ears ringing and he felt the Pict bury her face further against him. Something wet dribbled down on his bare skin. Was she crying? Her vice-like grip around him tightened to the point it disturbed his blood circulation, but Leifr didn't remove the girl off his person. Instead, he turned around to face the sea and stroked Senua's hair in an attempt to calm her.

Despite his best efforts, the Pict's body continued to shake uncontrollably from muffled sobs. Why was she behaving this way? Did she not understand what a privilege it was for a thrall to to join their master in the halls of Odin and partake in the bounty meant for only the bravest of men? A thrall's fate was to spend the rest of eternity in the cold embrace of Hela. The shaman had freely granted them what most Norse men coveted.

Perhaps he was looking at this from the wrong angle. After all, her kind had their own gods and beliefs of what happened after death. Had she known the sacrificed thralls personally? Leifr doubted it. Senua had shown no signs of affinity towards any of the thralls besides Einnarmr. Yet something had clearly shaken her to the core.

"Mother."

Had Leifr not rested his chin against her forehead at that moment, he would have missed the softly uttered word. What did her mother have to do with anything? Leifr continued to listen, but she said no more. The sounds of her weeping were buried beneath the roaring of fire and screams of thralls still clinging to their lives.

"Shh. Don't be afraid. Leave it behind." Leifr felt like he was in a trance, like how old Agmundr often was before a battle. The cryptic, foreign words just seemed to come out of his mouth without any prompting on his part. At last Senua's hold on him loosened and her panicked breathing calmed down. "That's it. Breathe slow."

Leifr noticed Ǫssurr's wife watching them, her slender brow furrowed in worry. Perhaps it would be best to get Senua back to her chores and away from whatever was causing her so much pain. He wouldn't be able to comfort the girl when he and the other men were needed to erect a barrow over the remains of the deceased. With his free hand, Leifr motioned the older Pict over.

* * *

_A warrior defeated by a strand of wool. How pathetic._

_What else can we expect from someone who's spent most of her life locked in a pit?_

Senua glared at the fiber in her hand and the clenched the spindle in the other.

"How do you make it look so effortless?"

For the umpteenth time Ùna—whose inhuman patience must've been a blessing from the goddess Ricagambeda herself—took the clump of wool, connecting it with the snag and twisted until the ruined yarn was as good as new.

"My brothers liked to jest that I was born with a spindle in hand, but it was my mother who taught me as soon as I could walk." The wistfulness faded from the Pict's voice when reality pushed the memories of better days aside. "It was because of my skill in sewing that Ǫssurr first took notice of me. I mended his overtunic and he returned the favour by making me his mistress. Later, he grew bored of the other concubines and sold them along with my brothers. On his return we were wed and I was recognised as his legal wife."

Sighing, Ùna shook her head to rid herself of the painful images and returned the spindle and yarn to Senua. "I'm surprised your mother never taught you to spin or weave."

Already Senua's concentration began to waver as she stared at the piece of unworked wool with welling eyes. Pinch, draft, let go, spin. Repeat.

_If only she could've stopped her father. None of this would have happened._

_She was only five, what could she have done?_

Her voice was brittle when she finally found the willpower to reply. "She died before she could teach me."

Seeing those poor slave girls burn alive before her eyes had pulled Senua back to that harrowing night. She could vividly recall Galena's pained screams and how the flames had licked her bound body until the skin was charred and her face beyond recognition. The sickly stench of burnt cloth and flesh still haunted her.

But when the vision and the Furies' accusations were about to become unbearable, Leifr had brought her back from the clutches of darkness and granted her sanctuary in his arms. The way the Northman had caressed her hair and held her reminded Senua of how Dillion always comforted her after a nightmare. Leifr had mumbled softly against her ear, words she couldn't recall, but could've sworn were not Norse but Pictish.

Could a part of Dillion be awakening within Leifr? It was getting harder to tell where Leifr ended and Dillion began. Maybe they were truly one and the same. The Northman certainly had a knack for showing kindness to Senua when no-one else would and giving her hope when there was none, and just like Dillion, being completely unaware how much it truly meant to her.

_She believes what she wants to. She sees Dillion in Leifr's every little gesture._

_But how could a Northman walk and talk exactly like Dillion and not be him?_

_She's clinging on to a fool's hope, just like Tharain warned._

Deep down, Senua knew that Leifr could only be her Dillion. Everything, from his voice to the way he behaved, proved as much.

Coming to a conclusion, Senua inhaled a shuddery breath. It didn't matter if she couldn't separate the Northman from her lover—she could love the man as a whole. All Senua needed was a moment alone with Leifr to convince him of his true nature.

The two Picts sat in contemplating silence, listening to the crackling and popping of dying flames, neither wishing to rekindle the hearth after watching their kin be burnt alive. The air felt unusually still without Einnarmr's constant shuffling in the back of the house. The men had yet to return, leaving Senua and Ùna to occupy the longhouse by themselves.

Eventually Senua felt the other Pict's warm hand rest against her back. The older woman's voice was laced with pity when she spoke. "I'm sorry about your mother. What of the other women in your village? Did they not offer to teach?"

Senua bit her cheek, not daring to look up into those solemn grey eyes. She hadn't told the truth about her condition to Tharain, Delerei or even Veda, how could she possibly confide in Ùna?

_It's not worth the risk._

_No-one will ever accept her as she is._

_Only Druth and Dillion never abandoned her._

Suddenly the door flew open, startling both Picts. In came old Agmundr, his brooch and battle axe swinging with each long stride as he went to fill a tankard with ale. Once his thirst was quenched, the wolfskin berserker settled down next to the women, his bare feet carelessly raised to rest against a post. He lazily eyed at the unfinished spindle of yarn in Senua's white-knuckled grip.

"You'll have to do better than that, girly. There's not enough yarn for even a single sock."

Senua stared at the floorboards and replied clumsily in Norse. "Yes, master."

The Northman snorted, not buying the meek act for a second. A warrior who killed their chief, three scouts and bit off fingers could hardly turn into an obedient servant over the course of a couple of days. "I don't know what the lad saw in you to tear his only tunic for the sake of your knee, but you can't expect him to prance around nude like you barbarians do."

Ùna saw Senua's posture stiffen and intervened before the younger Pict could do or say anything rash. "And he shall receive a tunic worthy of a warrior, master Agmundr. Senua will learn to weave and sew as did little Tuilelaith."

"See to it." Having finished his ale, Agmundr straightened up and grabbed Senua by the hair, forcing her to face him. "Leifr might go easy on you, but I won't suffer leeches under my roof. The moment you're not wanted in his bed, you go back to the pens with the rest of them. You do your part like a good thrall and I _might_ let you have scraps from the table, got that?"

Jaw clenched, Senua averted her gaze lest the berserker see the hatred bubbling under her calm façade. Little would be gained by acting on impulse when she had yet to win Leifr over. "Yes, master."

To Senua's relief, Agmundr let go of her hair and left the house. He would be unlikely to return before night meal, the heartier meal of the day. As eager as Senua was to rush Einnarmr to teach her more Norse and finally actually talk to Leifr, she would have to take things slowly. For one, she needed her strength, and in order to be at her best, she needed to eat, which meant she needed to spin enough yarn to satisfy the wolfskin berserker.

Gritting her teeth, Senua continued to work under Ùna's tutelage.

* * *

Leifr watched Senua scrub the bowls and plates clean in a basin. Her cooking hadn't improved since day meal, but he knew these things took time. Einnarmr made passable meals, adding his own spin with dried Túathan herbs that in Agmundr's opinion had no place in food. At least the Pict hadn't surprised them with any strange combinations of flavours; her cooking was as bland as one could expect from a barbarian. Still, Leifr didn't doubt she would learn like the rest of the wives.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Senua paused and looked up, her lips slightly parted in a silent query.

She was beautiful.

A shimmery bead of sweat trailed down from her hairline which she hastily wiped on a sleeve of her chemise. She was still unaccustomed to the many duties of a female thrall and the fatigue was starting to show on her cheeks as a rosy blush. The colour seemed to deepen the longer Leifr held the Pict captive under his scrutiny. One of the wives had given her a headscarf which she now donned to keep her long locks from getting in the way. Despite the numerous scars, her skin had a healthy glow, unlike the Túathan wives who looked almost sickly pale in comparison. The Pict was fit and strong as a warrior should be—if a little malnourished—and the woolen dress Ǫssurr's wife had given hugged Senua's curves in all the right places.

"Don't slack, girly." Agmundr barked from the other side of the house. Immediately Senua set back to work, but Leifr didn't miss her sneak a glance or two in his direction.

He came to a conclusion. Senua was Leifr's by law and it was time he claimed what was rightfully his. Agmundr certainly was of the same mind, ever worrying that treating thralls too leniently would spark a rebellious streak in them.

Leifr waited for Senua to finish her work. Once done, she knelt by the old berserker's feet and patiently waited for her next task.

"I believe that's enough for today, Senua", Leifr said and tossed a log into the fire, before beckoning her over. Ever compliant, the Pict settled next to him on the bed. Leifr couldn't quite tell whether the light pressure of her thigh against his was intentional or not as Senua fixed him with those wide doe-eyes. The pleasant smell of soap wafted to his nostrils. Leifr found it almost amusing how much a good scrubbing could increase even a barbarian's allure.

"You've done well today. Even the old wolf is pleased, although he might not show it."

"And you?"

Her sincere question caught Leifr by surprise. In that moment Senua looked small and vulnerable, nothing like the warrior he had admired mere minutes ago. His approval was important to the Pict for reasons other than a thrall seeking to earn her master's favour, yet Leifr couldn't imagine why.

"You've yet to disappoint", he admitted.

Senua bowed her head in humility, but the Northman could see the budding curve of a shy smile.

Removing her headscarf, Leifr was rewarded with thick, wool-like clumps of dark brown hair spilling over the Pict's narrow shoulders. She had a wild sort air about her that no amount of scrubbing or converting could tame, yet Leifr found this quality appealing—exciting even.

His hands came to rest on either side of Senua's face and drew her in for a kiss. The Pict didn't even put up a token resistance, instead allowing her chapped lips mesh together with his seamlessly and fight for dominance. Ever the warrior, just as Agmundr had warned.

They pulled apart followed by an audible smack of swollen lips disengaging and took shaky, shallow breaths. Somewhere along the line Senua had climbed on his lap and undone his braid, leaving flaxen hair free for her fingers to play with. Leifr didn't have any recollection of resting his hands on the Pict's thigh and the small of her back, either, but he wasn't about to complain about the turn of events.

"It would appear you're not too upset with me, either."

The Pict giggled, her voice silvery bright as a wind chime, before hiding her face in the Northman's neck to muffle the sounds of mirth. Through the layers of linen and wool, Leifr could feel the anxious beating of her heart as she relaxed against him.

For a moment they sat still and listened to each other's breathing. Then, Leifr reached up to unfasten the brooches on her straps. Senua gave no protest, not even when her dress fell on the wooden floorboards. Soon her chemise followed, leaving the Pict in nothing but leather shoes that she readily kicked off her feet.

Leifr made to remove his waistwrap, but Senua pushed his hands aside and took over, receiving a chuckle for her cheekiness. There was no denying he rather liked the feeling of the Pict's nimble fingers on him as she worked to remove his trousers.

Once both were free from any and all hindrances, Leifr lowered Senua to rest against the sheepskins and hovered over her, careful not to hurt her injured knee. To think just the other night he couldn't have imagined even laying a finger on the Pict without her consent.

His underlying concern must've shown, because Senua moved to lace their fingers together and offered him a reassuring smile. She must've wanted this, too, for no thrall was ever this keen to warm their master's bed, not even for the promise of freedom.

In spite of both his and the Pict's eagerness, Leifr was not in a hurry to make love. Instead, he chose to hold back, to admire and memorise every detail, every slender curve and scar of her nude body and the way her dark hair billowed around her with each shuddery breath. He might not have any memories from before his life in Hrossey, but damn it, if he wasn't going to make new ones to fill the blank.

Her hand clenched his, demanding he stop stalling.

Leifr wasn't about to keep a lady waiting.

* * *

Senua cracked an eye open, only to immediately regret it as a ray of sunlight momentarily blinded her. She covered her sensitive eyes with her arm, but the sudden movement caused the man next to her stir.

"Senua?"

"Go back to sleep, Dillion", she mumbled.

Her lover's breathing slowed down as sleep caught up with him once more. Senua was content to follow his example until she felt someone shake her shoulder. Blinking blearily, she tried to make sense of the blurry image of a wolf next to her.

"Get up, girly", it growled. The words were foreign to her, but she understood their meaning. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Carefully, Senua removed Dillion's arm from her waist as not to disturb him and left the warmth of their bed. What could be so important to disturb their bliss? Cold clothes were shoved in her arms. "Get dressed. You have work to do."

"Can't this wait?"

The wolf painfully grabbed her by the hair and forced her down on the still healing knee. Senua bit her lip to silence her whimper. "I won't tolerate that filthy language in this house. Understand?"

Mutely, Senua nodded and held the clothes to her bare chest. The wolf let go of her and retreated to the hearth. It was then Senua realised it was none other than Agmundr. Turning towards the bed, she saw the straw-coloured hair of Leifr peeking from beneath the covers.

_Was it all a dream? Being back in the village with Dillion?_

_Such a pleasant dream it was._

_But reality isn't all bad._

The Furies giggled as Senua relived each heated moment from the night before. She had needed only to close her eyes to hear Dillion's voice panting her name, to feel Dillion touch her in ways that only he knew how. It was as if the Northman had cast a spell on her, convincing she was back in Dillion's village, in their shared roundhouse.

"Let the lad sleep, girly. Been a while since he's had a good night's rest." Agmundr's voice was uncommonly gentle when he spoke. It might've been just shadows playing tricks on her, but Senua could've sworn she saw a glimpse of a fatherly smile grace the old berserker's lips.

By the time she was dressed, Einnarmr had returned to start another day in service to his master.

* * *

Leifr crossed his arms and eyed the large gathering of men that had assembled in the town square for what they called a _Thing_ , a communal meeting of free men to decide matters of importance, such as laws—or in their current case their new chief. He and Agmundr, as well as the rest of the warriors, farmers and craftsmen were present. One could barely hear themselves think as men competed over who got to have their say.

"Skorri left no successor, yet we cannot remain leaderless."

"Only the strongest deserves the position."

"It takes more than strength to lead. One must have wisdom, experience and foresight."

Agmundr ignored the several expectant glances the twenty-odd warriors cast his way, just as Leifr had predicted. The old wolf was content being in charge of his household and to lead by example in battle, as was the norm for berserkers, but he had no interest in leading the whole community.

Finally fed up with the old berserker's aloofness, Ráðugr raised his voice. "What say you, Agmundr Úlfhéðinn? Are you not the strongest and the most experienced?"

Leifr immediately recognised the playful glint in Agmundr's eye. "You would pry this old man from the comfort of his home to sit on a throne better suited for a man in his prime?"

"Then who would you propose take Skorri's place?" Yngvarr demanded, always the impatient one.

Agmundr lazily scoured the crowd for a particular man. "Hildr Kyrri, I've heard you've been in the presence of royalty."

The dark-haired Northman eyed the older warrior, not following the berserker's logic. "Aye, my wife's family."

"Story goes you and your men were ordered to kneel and kiss the king's boot. Your men refused, but you had something else in mind."

A slow grin curved Hildr's lips. "Aye. I grabbed the king's foot and raised it up to my lips. The king didn't say anything about not dangling him upside down while doing it."

A chorus of roaring laughter broke the tense silence. Even Yngvarr's grim visage broke and he chortled with the rest.

"So I say." Agmundr cast a meaningful look to Ráðugr. "That Hildr Kyrri be crowned our leader, for he alone has experience treating royalty as well as the strength and wisdom required."

"Not him", Víðhugsi groaned from beside Leifr.

A round of applauses and hollering followed as Hildr was gifted with the symbols of a chief; an iron helm, a ceremonial axe and a pendant with Thor's hammer. A thick bearskin cloak was wrapped around his broad shoulders.

After the men had drank their fill in honour of their new chief, Agmundr and Leifr began to head back towards their home.

"So, was the girl everything you hoped for?"

"Ǫssurr seems to have spoken the truth, at least this once." Leifr smirked. "I may have to give her the key to my property."

Agmundr teasingly tested the younger man's forehead. "You sure you aren't catching a fever?" Then, more solemn, the wolfskin berserker dropped his heavy hand on Leifr's shoulder. "All jesting aside, aren't you getting ahead of yourself, son? One night with the thrall and you're already taking her before the priest. You should make sure she's fully tamed before giving her the privileges of a Norse woman."

"And how long do you think I should wait?"

"Long enough to find out if you're the one who has tamed her and not the other way around."

Leifr frowned. "What are you saying?"

"She's got you wrapped around her pinky, lad. Next thing you know, she'll have you free the other thralls to prove your affections." Agmundr exhaled a long, heavy sigh. "All I'm saying is to be careful around her, son. Skorri might have been a greedy fool, but even he knew to fear the Picts and their black magic."

Leifr clasped the berserker's hand, expression grave as he vowed. "Alright. I won't have her recognised as my wife before I have your blessing."

The men continued to walk towards the field. The little wife of Hildr was already there, calling for the cattle, and beside her was none other than Senua, bucket in each hand for milking. Agmundr followed Leifr's gaze to the Pict thrall and stroked his greying beard.

"That said, I've never seen you sleep so peacefully, I'll give you that. Guess all you needed to get rid of those nightmares was a woman's touch."

The younger man shrugged. "Maybe. Or just hers."

* * *

_Maybe he's not interested in her at all. Maybe he just wants to use and eventually discard her, just like Ùna said._

_Even if he did discard her, he'd never be satisfied with another woman. That's what Hela said._

_Hela's a liar!_

Ignoring the Furies' usual quarreling, Senua plucked another apple from the lowest branch and tossed it into a woven basket. Even at her full height she couldn't reach any higher, and with her knee still causing her grief, she couldn't exactly climb, either. Senua glared at the apple dangling just out of her reach and used her crutch to knock it to the ground before picking it up.

While Senua was glad to put off the infernal weaving for another day and have the opportunity to secretly consume an apple or two, she was by no means happy with her lot. It had been five days since Senua had exchanged a single word with the painted Northman. Whenever she chanced a glimpse of his woad-eagled chest, Senua had to worry about Agmundr breathing down her neck to finish whatever task he had come up with. Nothing escaped the old berserker's watchful eyes and if Senua dared to push her luck with half-measures, she would retire unfed that night. Even when Agmundr was away and Leifr happened to pass by to have a quick cup of ale before returning to the field, Senua could never seem to catch him alone. Either Einnarmr or one of the wives was teaching her or Leifr had company.

The only times Leifr wasn't out working in the fields, hunting or passing time with the other men was during the day and night meal and, of course, nighttime. At night Senua couldn't hope to have a meaningful conversation with the man when she was trapped beneath his body and giddy with desire as his warm mouth and hands explored every inch of her. To make matters even more difficult, there was hardly any privacy within the longhouse—only screens of wood and draperies obscured their amorous activities from Agmundr. Even if Senua could've articulated herself under Leifr's attentions, the old berserker would've heard every word and put an end to their affair.

Senua took another bite of the apple hidden in her sleeve, its sweet juice turning sour as she chewed and thought of the fair-haired Northman. Leifr hadn't made any effort to seek her out after the healer had checked on her knee. How was she to persuade him to leave with her if he wouldn't have a single private conversation with her?

The Furies scoffed and giggled, each coming with their own foolish answers to her rhetorical question.

Suddenly Senua was turned around and pushed until her back was pressed against the trunk of the apple tree. Strong hands held her wrists captive above her head. Before she could panic and attempt to fight off the assaulter, a familiar mouth descended towards hers, teasingly peppering her parted lips with small pecks and tasting the sweetness of apples.

"Someone's been enjoying the bounty", Leifr accused with a faint smirk on his lips.

Her cheeks warmed to a beet-red hue and she mumbled in broken Norse. "...Hungry."

The Northman's grin widened. "That's why I told the old wolf to send you to gather alone."

Puzzled, Senua frowned. "Eat apples?"

A chuckle. Oh, how she had missed that sound.

"That, and so nobody would disturb us." His lips trailed down the bridge of her nose and cheek, pausing to caress the corner of her mouth. "I've missed you."

It was far too easy to surrender to his care and forget about everything else.

_She has to convince him._

_She can't leave without him._

_She needs to take him with her and warn Tharain and his people._

Senua snapped out of the pleasant haze. She had waited for days for this golden opportunity to actually talk with Dillion's vessel. This was her only chance.

Leifr grunted a protest when Senua turned her head to break the kiss. It was the first time she had ever denied him. Before Leifr could pull back and try to make sense of her sudden reluctance, Senua leant forward to whisper against his ear. "Remember me?"

Leifr pulled away from their embrace, releasing Senua's wrists and leaving her to stagger against the tree from loss of support. The space between their bodies felt far wider and colder than it ought to as Leifr fixed her with a skeptical glare.

"What do you mean by that?"

Thinking quickly, Senua removed her warrior pin and placed it in Leifr's palm. "You gave. Remember?"

Leifr turned the pin around in his hand and ran a thumb across its smooth surface, but nothing seemed to spark recognition. "When did I give this to you?"

"Warrior trial."

He wasn't outright denying her claim and was willing to humour her—for now, at least. It had to be a good sign.

"We don't have warrior trials." Leifr fastened the brooch on the strap of her dress. "So, how do you explain that?"

Senua racked her brain for words that would convey her meaning. Telling the truth was the only way Leifr would ever agree to run off with her.

_She's trying this too early._

_She can't convince him when she speaks like a geilt who has forgotten how to speak._

_She can't wait forever! Every day she waits, she risks the Northmen finding the village! She has to warn them!_

"You know me. You forget. You come back. Hela promised."

The Northman was quiet, scrutinising her and weighing the worth of her words. Then, Leifr lifted a hand to cup her cheek and watched as Senua leant into his touch like the day he first took her in. For a brief, hopeful moment, Senua thought she saw a glint of realisation in the Northman's eyes.

"The old wolf warned me about you." Leifr's tone was placid, almost thoughtful as he caressed the length of her jawline. "You're far too perceptive for a thrall. But I'm no fool. I know what you're doing." Abruptly and painfully he grabbed her chin and lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. "You're trying to take advantage of my memory loss and claim I'm one of your people or some such nonsense."

"But you are!" Senua placed a palm over his heart where the blue tail of the eagle ended, wishing she could make the Northman understand in spite of her poor language skills. "You paint… I know why–!"

Roughly, Leifr shoved her, his words chilly as winter winds when he spoke. "Enough. You are wasting your breath."

"Dillion!"

Senua grabbed his arm to stop him, but Leifr yanked himself free and snarled. "You should go back to the house and finish that tunic, so Agmundr will finally shut up about it."

He didn't even look back when the Pict's legs gave out, forcing her to sink on her knees. Defeated, Senua hung her head and silently wept.

* * *

"Do you think the Pict girl is one of those hermit types that live in the wilds?"

Leifr cast a curious glance at Ráðugr before continuing sharpening his sword. "If she is, it's not by choice, I don't think."

Ráðugr leant against the shed next to Leifr and absently twirled a dart between his fingers. "Because if she's not, there might be a village nearby."

"Possibly. Agmundr told me Skorri was more interested in exploring the land of the Túatha than Hrossey."

"Aye. He got his sights on bigger and better loot." Backing away from the shed, Ráðugr aimed and threw the dart. It landed on the edge of the bullseye and earnt a low whistle of approval from Víðhugsi. Ráðugr readied another dart. "Me? I'd be more interested in finding something worthwhile closer to home for a change."

"Thralls always sell, but the quality is harder to guarantee than that of the riches looted from a monastery. And the monks don't fight back unlike the locals." While Leifr knew his arguments were sound, he couldn't help but feel he was trying to persuade his kin to leave Senua's people be. When had he taken the Pict's side?

" _Barbarian loving asshole."_ Yngvarr's spiteful words rang in his ears.

Ráðugr shrugged. "We're shorthanded thanks to the funeral and harvest's just a month away. Besides, you can't bed a monk."

"Maybe you haven't tried hard enough." Víðhugsi grinned.

Ignoring the adolescent, Ráðugr gathered the darts from the board. "All I'm saying is that we should go explore beyond the forest we found the girl from. Only this time we bring all the lads. The more the merrier."

Leifr set the whetstone aside and studied his distorted reflection on the blade. For a brief moment he could have sworn he saw a Pict man staring back at him. He made a mental note to wash the woad from his face the first chance he got. "And once we find what you're looking for, then what?"

Another dart landed on the bullseye.

"Then we nicely ask their leader to give up their goods and womenfolk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Svá, þú eru vakinn nú. Góðr. = So, you’re awake. Good.  
> Friðr! = Peace!  
> Ek skal eigi gera þik mein. = I won’t hurt you.  
> laugardagr = Saturday (literally washing day)  
> Fyrirgef mik. = I’m sorry.  
> kulning (Swedish) = herd call  
> Gaeilge = Irish language  
> fool's grip: According to viking law when someone grabs a married woman's ankle, they get fined and the fines grow the higher the hand goes. But if said man were to touch the woman's knee or higher, he wouldn't get fined, because he would have to answer to the woman's family and he'd be lucky to escape with a beating.  
> Úlfhéðinn = wolfskin shirt (byname)  
>   
> Since there's so many new characters with unfamiliar names, I figured it best to put a short summary of each character here (I'll put the Pict characters to the next chapter's notes, since they'll have a more prominent role there):
> 
>  **Agmundr** (terror protector)  
> -Leifr’s closest friend and the one to find him after being resurrected  
> -an úlfhéðinn (wolfskin berserker), his preferred weapon is a large axe  
> -41 years old and oldest warrior
> 
>  **Einnarmr** (one arm)  
> -Irish slave whose arm Agmundr cut off  
> -22 years old
> 
>  **Skorri** (loud one)  
> -leader of 27 warriors and chieftain of the village, his preferred weapons were a mace and a shield  
> -26 years old
> 
>  **Yngvarr Fjórisfingur** (army in the name of god, fourfingers)  
> -a skald (poet) with sand-coloured hair who plays a talharpa and uses a spear in battle  
> -21 years old
> 
>  **Ráðugr** (shrewd)  
> -helps Leifr carry Senua to the village  
> -responsible for the keys to the slave pens  
> -23 years old
> 
>  **Ùna** (famine/hunger)  
> -the only other Pict in the settlement and wife of Ǫssurr  
> -most notable for her skills in tailoring  
> -27 years old  
> -short, dark brown hair, grey eyes
> 
>  **Tuilelaith**  
>  -Irish wife of Hildr  
> -most notable for her skills with handling cattle  
> -12 years old  
> -freckled, brown hair, hazel eyes
> 
>  **Hildr Kyrri** (battle, calm)  
> -a dark haired Norseman and Tuilelaith’s legal husband  
> -30 years old
> 
>  **Mallaidh**  
>  -Irish wife who sings at Skorri's funeral  
> -tall enough to be mistaken for a Norse woman
> 
>  **Fíona** (pure)  
> -Irish wife  
> -frail and thin with ginger hair and green eyes
> 
>  **Víðhugsi** (wide mind)  
> -a glass bead maker and Tuilelaith's best friend  
> -has blond hair with shaved sides  
> -14 years old
> 
>  **Æisir** (to rush on)  
> -one of the scouts who fought with a one-handed axe  
> -has his ribs broken by Senua and dies from a sword to his spine
> 
>  **Tafi** (dawdler)  
> -one of the scouts and the first to die at Senua’s hands
> 
>  **Þiǫkkr** (thick/dense)  
> -one of the scouts who fought with both one-handed axe and dagger.  
> -dies from a sword through the heart
> 
> Also, I'm going to Iceland in July and do some proper hands-on research on vikings. :D Gonna check out all the museums and ruins that I can. So next chapter won't be done before that as I want to gather all the inspiration I can from there.


End file.
